For Better or Hearse

Chapter Three

S uitcase wheels screech across tile floor. Overhead, fluorescent terminal lights hum. The heavy carry-on and roller bag weigh Ash down like anchors.

All the sunscreen and floppy hats in the world have been successfully packed. Because Ash doesn’t tan like Tessie. She fucking crisps.

Up ahead, Augustus breezes through the Honolulu airport. In his patterned cardigan, slim-fit trousers and loafers, he looks like a member from the Rat Pack. The gold band he still wears for his late wife, Rosalea, glimmers on his ring finger. He keeps a tight hold on his carry-on with his age-spotted hand. He wouldn’t let her carry it. No matter how many times she asked. He might appear fragile, but the man’s strong like bull.

“Coming, Ash?” He glances over his shoulder at her with a chuckle. His determined yet casual stride says I am a man with money and damn good taste .

“Coming.” She tugs at her roller bag and then promptly stumbles over her boots.

Damn Tessie. She never should have let her cousin talk her into that second bag. But if she’s into blaming things, she also never should have had that second tequila on the plane.

She shakes her head, trying to catch her breath, then hustles up to Augustus, who’s clearing the space ahead of her like he’s Usain Bolt.

This is Exhibit A of her theory of why the man will truly never die. Even with a slow-growing form of brain cancer, he is a nonstop force of nature. Overseeing his boutique chain of hotels. Poker games at the legion every Sunday. He never stops .

Augustus Fox. A man larger than life. Rich. Decisive. No bullshit. He’s also the kindest and most interesting man she’s ever met. The stories he tells her about Hollywood and Vegas in the ’70s are like catnip. She’s 90 percent positive he muled for the mob. He claims to be in possession of a money clip that once belonged to mafia don Carlo Giacomo. She 98 percent believes him.

Six months into their relationship, Augustus is a part of her daily routine. They met at a funeral of an old-school Hollywood actress he swears he almost married. Ash was working part time as a mourner, and after she flung herself on the grave and was dusting off her shoes, Augustus said, “I like your style.”

Then he hired her, and that was that.

Now, on his good days, she plays chess with him in his posh Beverly Hills bungalow. She accompanies him to chemo on his bad. In a matter of weeks, he became family. This wise old man who makes tea for her, calls her dear, and has the most magnificent wine collection she’s ever seen.

Officially, Ash is his death doula. Though she likes to think of herself as a personal death bouncer. Regardless of where her clients are in the process, they don’t have to do the game of death alone. She’s there. To help plan, to advocate, to spend the last moments with those who have no one. Whatever they need. Hand massages, spiritual readings, traveling halfway around the world on a tropical vacation. It’s what she does.

Sure, it’s an unorthodox arrangement, but it is also an honor.

It doesn’t hurt that being Augustus’s death doula comes with a lifesaving amount of money. Literally. With the cost of insulin supplies astronomically high, she needs to bank every penny she can.

“Okay,” she huffs, bringing a hand to her chest. Her heart has never known this much exercise. “Debrief.”

Augustus barely turns, his lips pulling into a smile. “Debrief? We prepped on the plane.”

“Then a refresh,” she croaks. Her mouth is dry and sweet. She wishes she could stop at a bathroom to clean herself up. She doesn’t trust her fuzzy tequila-riddled memory. On the plane, Augustus gave her the lowdown on each family member who’d be joining the vacation. To be prepared . That warning had been ominous, to say the least.

His nod is brisk. “My daughter.”

“Claire. Also called Claire Bear. You love her, but you’d love her more if she hadn’t settled for, and I quote, that ‘deadbeat, dead-eyed sorry excuse for a husband.’”

“Impressive. And accurate. My son-in-law.” Augustus’s voice hardens. “Don.”

“Don,” she repeats. The name drips from her lips like poison. “Part Frankenstein, part day trader, all asshole. We couldn’t take the private jet because he called dibs first. And as you repeated numerous times on the plane, you will not save him from a shark attack, and I am banned from doing so as well, which is exactly my type of petty.”

Augustus’s bark of laughter echoes through the terminal. “Would you believe it was the tequila talking?”

Ash swats at him lightly. “Augustus, I think you’re a lying liar.”

As is her habit, she palms the bag slung around her waist. Checks to make sure she has her insulin pens. One long acting and one short acting. Another set tossed in just in case she gets stranded on a desert island.

“Tate,” she says.

“Youngest grandson. Goes by the unfortunate nickname Tater Tot. He’s using his inheritance as a podcast startup.”

In unison, she and Augustus groan.

“Horny,” Augustus continues. “Every time he crosses a state line, he sees it as an objective to get laid.”

A stranger rams into Ash’s shoulder, pulling a curse from her. She spins around to glare at the offender. Walking backward, she says, “How do you know all this? Somehow, I doubt it’s in the family manual. ”

His blue eyes sparkle with a glint of mischief. “I have little birdies.”

Ash laughs. Of course he does.

The annoying chime of her phone blares from her purse. A warning from her continuous glucose monitor, or CGM, that her blood sugar is either high or low.

“Sugar, my dear?”

“Nope.” She swirls a finger. “Not yet. Keep trucking.”

They continue their trek through the terminal. Ash resumes her debrief.

“Delaney. Baby of the family. Only granddaughter. Actress of slasher films. If she offers to give me a tarot reading, I am to politely decline.” Ash rattles off the details, ingrained in memory, for this two-week vacation.

With a nod, Augustus puts a gentle hand on her elbow and stops her, pulling her into a nook near a water fountain. “Listen, Ash. I love my family. But they are like sharks. When one of them takes a bite out of you, the rest of them can smell it.”

Ash fights the swell of anxiety rising inside her. What is she walking into? God, what if they’re the Firefly family?

She shakes off the thought. It’s only two weeks. And it’s for Augustus. She can survive almost anything.

“I will be on guard,” she says. “But I will also be on my bullshit.”

Augustus cackles. “That’s why I like you, Ash. You sting.”

“Oh good,” she huffs, fighting with the strap of her carry-on. “I love being likened to a swarm of wasps.”

The older man’s expression drops into melancholy. He steps closer and grips her shoulder with a firm hand. “This is my last chance, Ash. To make sure they’re okay.” His voice softens. “Because how can I leave this earthly plane without doing everything I can to protect them?”

The words are said with such a sad caress of longing that it makes her heart ache.

She sees this a lot. The end-of-life wrap-up. It’s human nature. Fix regrets. Mend bridges. Get things in order so that the dying feel some semblance of control, no matter how small.

Which is where Hawaii comes in.

For once, Augustus has nothing on his calendar—no medical tests, procedures or treatments—and he scheduled the trip to fit between his six-week chemo appointments.

Augustus, a developer of boutique hotels studded across the West Coast, has arranged for his family, as well as Ash, to visit each of the resorts he’s built in Hawaii. One last vacation before he gets too sick to enjoy it. And she’s to act as a kind of mediator between him and his estranged family.

Augustus arches his craggy brows and sighs. “We’re loud, Ash. Loud in love, loud in anger. For the last few years, it’s been decibel levels. And not in the good way.” He looks at her, pleading. “I need to see us all together. One last time.”

A wave of softness hits her in the gut, but she refuses to get emotional. At least until the end. She takes her vibes from her clients. If they want her to rail and sob and curse the world, she will. If they need her to be a hard-ass, to be unaffected and stoic, she can do that too.

It’s why she’s good at this.

Only with Augustus, she’s not ready.

Augustus isn’t either.

She squeezes his hand. “You will. We’re going to see your hotels, have a fucking party and wrangle your family.”

His lips part. The mournful look gone. “I couldn’t have said it better myself, my dear.”

They begin to move again. Up ahead, the baggage claim beckons. A voice over the loudspeaker reminds travelers that suitcases and strangers don’t mix.

“Oh, and I forgot to tell you,” Augustus booms. “My oldest grandson will be joining us. It was touch and go for a while there, but he was finally able to get time off work. ”

“The more the merrier,” Ash adds. As he should. What kind of monster can’t take work off for his grandfather’s last trip?

“Don’t tell anyone.” Augustus’s voice is jovial. “But he’s my favorite. Even if he is a doctor who works too much.”

“Favorite. Doctor. Noted.” She nods. Logs the info away in case she needs an adversary. Or a tourniquet.

Ash trips over her suitcase, the laces of her untied boots tangling in the wheels. She swears as the overpacked bag on her shoulder jerks her into a 360-degree spin. “What did you say his name was again?”

“I didn’t,” Augustus says, keeping his focus fixed on where they’re headed. “Nathaniel.”

Her whole body freezes. Ice courses through her veins. She tries not to choke on her own tongue. “Nathaniel. That’s, uh, short for Jonathan, right?”

Augustus doesn’t reply. He’s already shoving through the sliding doors that lead to the baggage claim area. “He’s here,” he exclaims with a kind of giddy little kid excitement.

Ahead of her, Augustus is pulled into a hug by a very tall, very broad, beige-ish figure.

She tilts her head up.

And up.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.

Ash stops. As does her heart.

This cannot be fucking happening .

The man letting Augustus loose from a hug is none other than Nathaniel Rhodes Whitford.

His eyes land on her, and he freezes too. The moment is like that terrifying jump cut at the end of a horror movie.

As Nathaniel takes her in, shock creases his expression. And then it slowly morphs into a more suitable look. A scowl full of loathing and disgust.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says.

In response, Ash’s entire body locks .

His eyes of pale-blue ice skim over her body. And not in a sexy way. In a how-you’d-look-at-someone-if-you-were-plotting-out-their-murder type of way.

“You’re the driver, right?” Ash asks, even though she knows he’s not the driver. Unless Augustus is very into giving out free hugs to just about anyone.

“The grandson,” Nathaniel bites out, his jaw as rigid as his posture.

Ash stiffens as if her body’s filling with cement.

That voice. Stern. Curt. It’s haunted her memory. Sure, he said less than five words to her that day, but those words were sandblasted into her brain.

Ash takes him in, her gaze shrewd. Unfortunately, the man matches the memory. As unfairly good-looking as she remembers. Obscenely tall. Muscular and broad-shouldered. Thick, wheat-colored hair that would make any normal woman want to rake her claws through it. Expensive chinos. The white linen shirt shoved up to his elbows exposes tan, corded forearms, an expensive dive watch. She could huff the Ivy League stench wafting off him. Which is unfortunate, because it’s obvious his face card is never declining.

Augustus looks from her to Nathaniel. “This is Ash.”

She stiffens, bracing for the blow. For Nathaniel to reveal to Augustus that she’s a home-wrecker. A terrible person.

Instead, all he says is “Ash? Just Ash?” He looks down at her with an expression of distaste. His upper lip curls. “Like soot from a chimney?”

Ash bristles but quickly shakes it off. She won’t give him the satisfaction of letting on that she’s uncomfortable. “The best kind.”

His brow lifts. “And you’re a…”

“A death doula. Your grandfather’s.”

Nathaniel surveys Augustus, doubt etched all over his grim face. Then he turns back to her. Amused now. “So, essentially, you’re unemployed. ”

Asshole. Of course employment would be the first topic on his mind. This man has probably never missed a day of work in his life.

Fine, then. She can give as good as she gets. Ash shoots back, “I wasn’t aware Hawaii had a welcome committee that insults its tourists.”

She squares her shoulders and turns to Augustus. But Nathaniel beats her to it. He takes his grandfather’s bag. Tries to pluck hers off her back like the caveman he is.

“I got it.” She locks her arms and pulls the bag tighter, but the sight of his long fingers and tan, well-veined hands is enough to knock her off-kilter.

She turns her head with a cringe. Please, god. Delete image.

“Grandpops,” Nathaniel says, his voice affectionate but still rough, “I think you could do better.”

Ash rolls her eyes. Grandpops . Of course he’d have an adorable nickname for Augustus.

Nathaniel heads for the exit, Augustus at his side, and she follows. She doesn’t attempt to keep up with them. The more distance kept between them, the better. Disgust emanates off Nathaniel in waves. He’s gritting his teeth so hard she’s afraid he’ll need reconstructive surgery.

Holy fuck. She’s always believed in kismet, but this? Flying halfway around the world only to discover that Augustus’s favorite grandson is Nathaniel Whitford is truly the coup de grace. It’s the worst karmic retribution she’s gotten in her thirty-three years of existence.

There’s no talking, no expression on Nathaniel’s face as he leads them to the car. Only a hand on his tie, tugging it loose like it’s constricting him.

He’s a robot. A scowling, stomping lithopedion.

They pass through the sliding doors. All at once, they’re outside. Ash hisses at the sticky air and brilliant sunshine. Her all-black attire is instantly clammy and uncomfortable.

“Interesting,” comes a grim voice. Nathaniel’s sharp gaze skims from her boots to her sheer long-sleeved lace bodysuit. “I should have known you were catlike in all of your reflexes.”

Ash bares her teeth. “Cats are one of the top apex predators of this world.” She jerks her bag back when he reaches for it again. “Show a little respect.”

His brow furrows. “Are you always so full of fun facts?”

“I am a walking encyclopedia.”

She scrutinizes the car. A big, black luxury SUV. Outside the passenger-side door, a driver waits, and relief fills her. She wants this conversation over with. More importantly, she wants air-conditioning. She’s sweating bullets. The heat’s sweltering. So different from LA. It’s like she got dropped into the middle of a sauna. Everything on her body is a puddle.

“How nice of you.” She gestures at the driver. “Making the world feel your wealth.”

“It’s a rental,” he grits out.

Ash yanks on the handle of the car door and throws him a withering glare over her shoulder.

Nathaniel pauses at the passenger side. “You know,” he says, squinting at her in disapproval, “not dressing like a plague doctor would help with all the sweating.”

Ash snorts. “At least I’m not dressed like American Psycho in paradise.”

There’s no comeback. Just a shutdown. Nathaniel flexes a fist, looking like he’s charging up his violence using photosynthesis.

Maybe she went too far.

Maybe.

Either way, she chases away that flare of guilt. He’s a cheater. He doesn’t deserve sympathy. Or niceness. Not from her.

Releasing an impatient breath, Ash crawls into the back seat. It’s dark and cool. She wants to burrow into the leather like a field mouse who loves a good sand dune. In her bag, her phone pings.

On the other side of the tinted window, Nathaniel helps his grandfather into the car, gripping Augustus’s hand with a tenderness that makes Ash’s throat pinch.

When the bags are loaded, Nathaniel takes a seat in the middle row and leans forward to give the driver directions.

The car begins to move as Augustus settles in the third row beside her.

Her phone’s obnoxious CGM alarm chimes yet another warning. This time she listens and pulls it out to check the reading. Her blood sugar is seventy-three and dropping. Tequila and an airport trek have done a number on her.

“You know,” Augustus begins, angling closer and momentarily distracting her. “If there was one thing I liked about you when we first met, it was the way you lunged for the altar.”

Her jaw drops, along with her stomach.

“Holy shit, you knew,” she hisses. Her eyes snap to Nathaniel, who sits stiffly in front of them.

“I knew of you.”

“Augustus, you cannot fucking be telling me that I am stuck on vacation with your grandson whose wedding I pretty much atom-bombed.”

“The more the merrier. Isn’t that what you said?” Augustus grins like the Cheshire cat.

She elbows him. “You’re lucky you’re dying.”

In the seat in front of them, Nathaniel makes a kind of choking noise.

Augustus merely shrugs. “I can’t say I agree with what you did, but I’m sure you have your reasons. Camellia was never up to snuff, in my opinion.”

She covers her face and sinks deeper into the seat, her chest constricting. “Oh Jesus, Augustus.”

“I can hear you, Grandpops,” Nathaniel says. He crosses his arms, but he doesn’t turn around.

Hit with a tidal wave of panic, Ash tilts closer to Augustus. “ I have to meet your entire family. Tonight . At dinner. And they all know what I did.”

“I’ll be there.” He pats her knee. “You’ll be fine.”

Fine. Right. That’s what serial killers say to their victims before they drive them down an old winding road to meet a garden shed full of meat hooks.

Her CGM alarm chimes again, but the reminder isn’t needed. Her body is already screaming at her. The fire of her blood. The sweat on her brow. Shit. She drops her phone back into her bag and digs through it for a granola bar. Once she’s got one in hand, she tears off the corner and takes a huge bite.

Nathaniel loops his arm over his seat and peers over his shoulder. “Like I said, it’s a rental. If you’re going to eat in the car, can you please try not to fuck up the upholstery with your crumbs?”

“Apologies for the inconvenience of being a type-one diabetic,” Ash says calmly but sharply. “I can drop dead if you prefer.”

Her response is met with nothing but silence from Nathaniel.

Good.

Ash collapses against the leather seat and turns her face to the window. The granola bar sits heavy in her stomach. The jagged cliffs and emerald-green foliage of Honolulu flash by. But she can’t appreciate its beauty, much less concentrate on it. Not with her blood sugar in the shitter and a disaster of a dinner looming on the horizon.

From the corner of her eye, she catches Nathaniel needling his brow like an icepick has just made its mark.

And it has.

She’s the icepick.