For Better or Hearse

Chapter Five

T he devil works hard, but Nathaniel Whitford works harder.

The man’s ready to kill her. Either it’s a throttling with his massive, well-veined hands or a shot-put direct into the ocean from their shared balcony. He could do it. The muscles he’s hoarding—unfairly toned biceps and ridiculously rippling pectorals—are evident even in the stern button-up he’s wearing.

And what did he call her? Bigfoot .

Scoffing, Ash tosses her dresses into a drawer without bothering to hang them up. Everything’s wrinkled anyway.

Clearly, petty nicknames are the best he can do.

Not that she blames him for his anger. Her actions back then were abhorrent. But he did a shitty thing. He should be pissed at himself, not at her.

Her mind leaps to the photos her client gave her. Nathaniel at a strip club, positioned far too familiarly with a girl who resembled a Bratz doll. Big eyes, bigger lips.

An icky, strange feeling suddenly settles in her belly like a lead ball. She’s on vacation with strangers. Worse, those strangers are the Whitfords . Dull, straitlaced millionaires who get what they want with a snap of their spoiled fingers. Her only ally is Augustus.

Puffing her hair out of her face in frustration, she eyes the fluffy white bed. A nap. A nap would be good for regeneration. But if she sleeps, she and Augustus will miss dinner. And she won’t give Nathaniel Whitford the satisfaction of thinking he’s scared her away.

With that vengeful thought, she rallies. After a scalding hot shower, Ash checks her blood sugar and towel dries her hair. She’s midway through her lip liner when her phone buzzes.

Tessie .

“Help,” Ash says into the device. “What do you wear to a dinner party where you need to be cool, calm and collected, but you’re also dining with the family of the man whose wedding you crashed?”

“A paper bag.” Tessie already knows the story, thanks to Ash’s frantic text during the car ride to the resort.

Ash snorts as Tessie stifles her own laughter. “Get serious. I’m having an existential crisis in paradise.”

“I am serious.” Tessie adjusts Bear in her arms. He’s climbing over her like she’s a carousel ride.

“Fuck.” Ash paces her bedroom, already sweating again from nerves. “They’re going to take one look at me and tar and feather me in the square. And why wouldn’t they?” she mutters. “They’re rich and I’m just a rag. They have perfect 401(k)s and make meaningful charitable contributions, but only for the tax write-off. And they do the turkey trot on Thanksgiving. I will bet you a thousand bucks.”

Tessie laughs, her dark eyes dancing. “Done.”

“Don’t get me started on Nathaniel. He’s this ugly, sour, morose doctor with a chip on his shoulder.”

Tessie arches a brow. “Ugly?”

With a flap of a hand, Ash averts her eyes. She regrets saying anything. “He’s one of the worst single, tall assholes I’ve ever met.”

“Of course he’s unbearable. You ruined his wedding.” Tessie’s lips tilt in a frown. “Have you considered apologizing?”

“Never,” Ash hisses. “You’re as bad as Mom.”

Her cousin lets out a thoughtful hum. “Aunt Bev knows the truth.”

Ash rolls her eyes, even though Tessie is right. The ever-present voice of reason, her mom, always ensures solid advice. Especially after Tessie’s mother died. She has always been there for Ash. To reassure her that her odd jobs and pastimes are valid, that she isn’t one career away from being on Feet Finder.

“Now,” Tessie orders with a giddy determination, “show me your clothes. I will style you from afar, and you will appreciate it.”

“Ruthlessly use me,” Ash crows as she sets her phone aside.

Once her hands are free, she lays out her dresses. Stares at the dark jewel colors that suddenly make her feel like a monster who’s swallowed the sun.

Phone in hand once more, Ash pans the collection. “Well?”

“The dark green slinkshow of a sundress.” Tessie peeks over Bear’s shoulder. “Add a gold necklace and hoops. Flip-flops.”

Ash wrinkles her nose and fights a shudder. “I don’t have flip-flops.”

“Wise decision,” Solomon says, popping in to steal Bear away from Tessie. “Your chances of being hunted by a seagull are low, but never zero.”

“See?” Ash says, lifting her chin. “Bearded baby daddy speaks the truth.”

Tessie sighs, and when Solomon dips close and kisses her brow, she smiles.

Ash flips her phone’s camera so the dresses are on screen again. “Which green? Emerald?”

“Evergreen.”

Leave it to her cousin to get picky with her Pantones.

Tessie nods her approval. “It’s giving big main character energy.”

Ash scowls. “I don’t want to be a main character. I want to be that statue in the corner of the room that sometimes gets mistaken for a ghost and scares the shit out of people.”

When Ash is sure Solomon’s out of eyesight, she strips. Then she slides the slinky green dress, snakelike, onto her curves. Once it’s in place, she holds the phone up and takes in her reflection in the mirror. With her wild hair and red partially painted lips, she looks …

Messy. The thought hurts.

“Ash?”

She doesn’t reply. She can’t. Not with the way she itches in her skin. That age-old feeling of not belonging. Even the suite is too fancy for her. Polished and pretty and light, when all she has is dark edges.

Fuck. She hates this feeling.

“You look beautiful, but you also look like you’re going to puke,” Tessie says gently.

Ash swallows, stares at her reflection. She doesn’t think she could get any paler. “I feel like I’m going to puke.”

“Okay, okay. Sit down. Water,” Tessie cries. Ever since she became a mother, she’s been obsessive about hydration.

Screw the water. Ash’s anxiety is bouncing all over the place. She collapses on the edge of the bed and sucks in one shallow breath after another.

Somewhere in the suite, the creak of a door. Augustus is awake and on the move.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she tells Tessie, desperate to erase the look of doubt on her cousin’s face. “If loving Jakob taught me anything, it’s that I will be fine no matter the situation.” She flaps her arms, airing out her armpits. “See? I’m not even sweating. I’m going to have a mai tai and hang with some vengeful strangers who hate my guts, and at the end of the trip, we’ll all be best fucking friends.”

“Ash—”

“ Tessie . It’s going to be fine . It’s an adventure. Paradise. It’s not trauma; it’s spicy sadness.”

Tessie needles her brow. “Only dogs can hear you right now.”

A knock at the door startles her. “Ash, my dear?”

“Go.” Tessie blows a kiss at the screen. “And remember: observe, do not absorb.”

“Right,” Ash mutters. “Observe.”

After she hangs up, she goes to the mirror and finishes her lipstick. Bright, matte lips of red. Ash narrows her expertly lined cat eyes at her reflection. She looks menacing and unaffected and unloved. Like a vampire from the Middle Ages.

Good.

If there’s one thing her ex taught her, it’s that love is a kind of death. Ash wants none of it. The happily-ever-after belief system perpetuated in fairy tales is a farce. Because eventually it all ends.

She glares at her reflection.

All she and Nathaniel have to do is avoid each other. It’s that easy. It’s not like they’ll be paired in water aerobics or shipwrecked together.

She chews at her lower lip as her stomach flips.

“You are not a mess,” she tells herself. “You are very much all the fuck put together.”

“We are fused,” Ash tells Augustus. She keeps her arm linked through his and holds tight. “Do not let go of me.”

A gruff chuckle. “Don’t choke, Keller.”

An inhale. A steeling of her spine. She can do this. She can . She may get knocked down, but she’s like one of those creepy clown punching bags—she pops right back up.

The Whitfords sit at a round table on the oceanfront terrace. Right in time for sunset. The sky is stained lavender and pink. Palm trees sway in the breeze. The air is clammy and warm. The crash of the waves creates a chaotic symphony amid the silence.

It should be a view to ooh and aah over. Instead, every person at the table is on their phone. No one’s paying attention. Or talking.

Except for Nathaniel.

He’s lounging in his chair, looking like he’s been personally styled by Hades himself.

His head snaps up, his lip curling at the sight of her. He scans her face, then his eyes dip to her breasts .

She flushes. Damn Tessie for this dress.

“You’re late,” he announces, those pale-blue ice shards piercing straight through Ash.

His annoyance has her bristling. Has her flashing back to those tiny, petty insecurities.

Messy and late and flaky. Everything Jakob said she was.

Never sticks to one thing, never stays in one place.

Once again, truly fuck that man.

“Dad.” The word is barely more than a whisper. A woman who looks like she’s the epitome of green smoothies and Pilates stands from her chair and wraps Augustus in a hug.

Ash hangs back, keeping a respectful distance. When he pulls away, Augustus beckons her forward to make introductions.

“Ash, this is my daughter, Claire.”

Claire is dressed in a long ivory pleated skirt and a silk tank top. Her platinum hair is twisted into a chignon.

Pushing down her nerves, Ash smiles. “Hi, Claire.” She sticks a hand out. Steadies it. “Mrs. Whitford,” she amends.

Claire’s palm is soft and warm in her own. “Ash.” Claire’s confused gaze bounces between Ash and Augustus. “And she’s your—”

“Death doula,” Ash says, intercepting the topic before it grows two heads. It never gets old. Especially in LA. Everyone assumes she’s Augustus’s much younger gold-digging lover. “I am, as they say, a way to bridge the gap between life and death for your father.”

Silence. For entirely too long.

“Christ, Augustus,” comes a resigned sigh from the table. Don, who looks like a reincarnated 1920s oil tycoon in Nike shorts and a tech fleece jacket, finally looks up from his phone. “Morbid, don’t you think?”

A guy in his twenties sporting a modest buzz cut and a bowling shirt—Tater, she supposes—snickers. “Man, that’s creepy.”

Nathaniel gives the man who must be his brother a scathing look. Probably for acting like Don’s parrot.

“Morbid, maybe, but necessary.” Augustus shuffles toward the table, mirth in his eyes. “I told you over the phone that I had hired someone to help navigate the end-of-life process. That’s why Ash is here.”

“It’s your dime,” Don says to the older man, giving Ash a look like she’s an unemployed freeloader.

Claire squints at her, her blue eyes cool. “You look…familiar.”

Her throat instantly goes tight. Nerves spark under her skin.

“That’s because she is.” A hard voice speaks up then.

Ash cringes at the conversation hijack. Shit .

Nathaniel leans forward in his chair. His long form a panther ready to strike. Vengeful eyes, eyes that Ivan the Terrible would be envious of, stare her down. “She’s the one who interrupted my wedding.”

As soon as he says it, she wants to saw her own head off with piano wire.

More silence.

“Oh, holy shit.” Tater covers his face with his hands and cackles. “This is fucking going in the podcast.”

Sure, she didn’t expect a red-carpet rollout, but being gaped at like she’s the reincarnation of Rasputin is a bit much.

Nathaniel wears an amused smirk, clearly pleased with himself.

Claire lets out a sharp breath. “How could you?”

Ash isn’t sure if it’s directed at her or Augustus.

Regardless, her stomach falls. Sweat mists her skin.

Don’s face is twisted in disgust. He scans Ash, his lip curled. “You’ve lost the plot, Augustus.”

Augustus dips his chin and grips the back of a chair with white knuckles. “I won’t stand for you giving Ash hell all night,” he says, his voice laced with stubbornness. “The past is the past, and she is here as my guest. We all deserve a fresh start.”

From the look of revulsion on Claire’s face, Ash is about as fresh as a two-day-old diaper .

Eyeing Ash, Augustus pulls out a chair and nods, motioning for her to sit. Unfortunately, the spot he’s chosen is next to Nathaniel.

Wordlessly, she obeys the man.

As Claire and Augustus argue using fake polite voices over whether she deserves to be here, Ash grips the table tight and holds on for dear life, even as her heart takes off at a gallop. Breathing through the panic, she tries to conjure the conversation she had with Tessie before she came to face the firing squad.

Observe, do not absorb.

Beside her, Nathaniel is rigid. His posture makes it obvious he’d rather be anywhere than here.

That makes two of them.

She feels like a snack stuck in a vending machine with no hope of rescue. Unloved. Uneaten.

“You’re still sweating.”

The smug voice has her slowly turning her head.

Nathaniel angles in. Only a few inches separate them. The geometry of his face is insane. Stern brows. Chiseled cheekbones. Her sense of self-preservation is nonexistent when he’s well within punching distance. As well as smelling. It’s unfortunate, because his unholy scent is too damn fantastic for words. Like sun and sea with a hint of pine.

“No thanks to you.”

She’s boiling. And Nathaniel sits there like a smug blue-eyed bastard with his sharp, square jaw and perfectly mussed hair, while she feels like a drowned river rat paddling in a sewer for dear life.

“I hope you’re happy with yourself,” she grits out. “Your entire family hates me now.”

“They would have hated you anyway.”

She doesn’t know whether the statement makes her feel better or worse.

He shrugs. “I think I deserve some form of payback. Even if the punishment doesn’t fit the crime. ”

Ash grips her butter knife. “And what would?”

A wicked smile curls his lips. His voice is rough, murderous. “I can think of a few things.”

As waiters swoop in to set bottles of fancy water and expensive wine at the table, Ash drops the knife and picks up the heavy menu. Her arms strain to hold it upright.

“Shield?” he observes.

She eyes his excessively smug face over the entrée page. “Battering ram.”

Nathaniel takes a long drink of his beer, one brow cocked. “Is that a threat?”

Ash opens her mouth. Before she can snap back, her attention’s diverted by Don.

“Just tell me one thing, Augustus,” he’s saying, “is she in the will?”

“Whoa.” Ash sets down her menu with a thump. “Just so everyone knows, I do not need to be in a will. Anybody’s will.”

Augustus, seated between Claire and Ash, frowns. “If Ash is in the will, that is for me to know.”

Don grumbles. Tater cocks his head and inspects her.

Ash stares back, unmoved.

“She looks like a Manson girl,” he says suspiciously.

Ash perks up. Holy shit, if this dinner conversation takes a turn for Charlie Manson, she will not be upset about it.

Claire drains her wineglass. “Manson girls are not polite conversation, Tater.”

Nathaniel sighs and slumps in his seat.

Augustus lifts a hand. His soft voice is laced with vulnerability. “This is not to be a sad trip; you understand me? It’s a celebration of life, but before I die. A farewell party, if you will. I want to be around to enjoy it. I want us to spend time together.”

Ash takes in the faces around the table, expecting nods of agreement, maybe tears. There’s only awkward tension, averted eyes.

“Hikes. Tours. You can’t do much of that, Dad,” Claire says softly, tapping a manicured nail against her wineglass. The crystal sings out.

“Maybe not,” Augustus agrees with a lift of his chin. “But I’ll be there. Something I haven’t done well in the past.”

“It’s never too late,” Ash says, sitting straighter, “to start over.”

For a second, Nathaniel’s attention lands on her. His sharp jaw tightens a fraction.

Tate leans back in his chair, scratching his belly. In his belligerently bright shirt, he looks like he does the weather in Belize. “As long as it’s only two weeks. I got shit to do back in the States.”

Nathaniel needles his brow. “Jesus Christ. We are in the States, Tate.”

Ash narrows her eyes at Tate, tempted to scream at him. At all of them. Shock them out of their snooty, self-absorbed ways. This isn’t just some free vacation. This could be their last chance. This is a gift. To spend time with Augustus. Sure, he could have many long years left with treatment, but nothing is ever guaranteed.

She wills her nerves to steady, then palms Augustus’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

The older man straightens the buttons on his dress shirt. “It’s fine, my dear.”

“What?” she blurts. “No. It’s not fine.” She twists in her chair, scanning the table.

She can’t take the look on Augustus’s face. Crestfallen. Dejected. This is why she’s here, right? To intercept? To mediate. Her purpose here is to make Augustus happy. Fuck everyone else.

“Look,” she says, and all eyes land on her. “I realize you all want to tear into me like a pack of hyenas, and we’ll be stuck together long enough for you to do that. But Augustus planned this trip for you . You can schedule an appointment to yell at me in private, but for now, for these next two weeks, do you think I can just get a universal mulligan and we can all have some fucking fun?”

Claire squeaks.

“She’s right. ”

The deep voice sends a shiver up her spine. Stunned, Ash slowly turns to look at the source of backup.

Nathaniel arches a brow at his grandfather, silently conveying a message Ash can’t decode, while ignoring Ash like a tall, dutiful asshole. “We’re here, Grandpops,” he says stoically. “And this trip is all yours.”

Grudging murmurs of agreement come from the remaining Whitfords.

Eyes alight, Augustus drums the table, looking peppier than he did seconds earlier. “I appreciate that, my boy.”

Favorite grandson .

Ash can’t help but study Nathaniel’s tall, lean frame as the metal chair he’s lounging in practically groans under the weight of his muscles.

Cheater .

A vision of Nathaniel cozying up to the Bratz doll renews her anger, and she wills her eyeballs to disconnect from their optic nerves.

A waitress approaches with their appetizers. Oh, thank god. Food.

Mini crab cakes and potato chips with crème fra?che and caviar.

Fuck . This dinner from hell is never ending.

She looks up from her plate. “How many, uh, courses are there again?”

“Five.” Nathaniel’s lips curl up at the corner. “So get comfortable, Bigfoot.”

Ash narrows her eyes, holding his stare. “I will.”

“Good.”

“ Good .”

The sun has set. In the distance, the spark of lightning. Instead of conversation, the only sound is the clanking of utensils as they eat their tiny appetizers. The Whitfords’ uncomfortable stances make them look like they haven’t eaten dinner together in years. As if, in this family, conversation is reserved only for discussions about politics or professions. Not like a meal at her house. Loud and laughing. Ash and her mom and Tessie DJing their favorite songs while her father goes on and on about his train collection.

Ash sighs. She can’t take another minute of Claire clutching her pearls and giving her the evil eye.

If no one else is willing to start a conversation, then she will.

Lips twitching, she side-eyes Nathaniel, ready to harass this rude, unfeeling robot. “How’s life in the ER, Doctor Whitford?” she croons.

His eyes slice to her before his head does. “I don’t work in the ER anymore.” His words are choppy, like he’s grating up glass. But he doesn’t volunteer further information.

That’s new news. Last she heard from her client and the papers in Los Angeles, he was an ER doctor set to take over his father’s successful plastic surgery practice.

“So what do you do?”

Don sets his utensils down with a clatter. “Yes, Nate. That’s what I’d like to know.”

Nathaniel takes a bite of his crab cake and chews slowly before replying. “I work on an oil rig. The Sophia Marie . You know that, Dad.”

“Tell your father about the new position,” Claire urges with a small smile.

“Yes,” Ash says, at the same time Nathaniel says, “No.”

Interesting.

A muscle flexes in Nathaniel’s jaw. His eyes, lit by the glow of the tiki torch, flash. “Not tonight, Mom. It’s not a sure thing, anyway.”

Ash props an elbow on the table and her chin in her palm. “I’d love to hear about your life at sea. Are you, like, a pirate doctor, Nathaniel?” She arches a mocking brow. One she hopes makes him see red. “Are you skilled at treating scurvy?”

The glare he gives her is a snake ready to strike .

Don blusters a laugh, his chest puffing out. Then he stares Nathaniel down like they’re two lions in the jungle. “Because that’s far more useful than taking over the family business, I suppose.”

Fuck.

Shamefaced, Ash ducks her head and focuses on her plate. In her attempts to gently annoy Nathaniel, she inadvertently made friends with a far worse devil. The only time Don’s looked up from his phone or his meal to make conversation has been to rag on his son.

As drinks are refilled, appetizer plates are exchanged for fancy cheese and fine china in the promise of the main course to come.

While Don waxes on about the new plastic surgery practice he’s opening in Malibu, Ash’s phone beeps.

She checks her blood sugar. Sighs. Traveling always throws her schedule and her body out of whack.

As a type-one diabetic, controlling her blood sugar is a bitch. It’s not black or white. There’s no rule book. It’s not eat-one-Oreo-and-your-low-blood-sugar-will-go-up-twenty-points. It’s all trial and error. What worked yesterday may not work today. Exercise, stress, hormones, even her time of the month, all play a role in that funky dance of the ups and downs of blood sugar.

She opens her purse and groans when she realizes it’s empty. In transferring her belongings to the tiny baby purse Tessie forced her to pack, she’s forgotten her granola bars. Normally, she’d wait for dinner, but since it doesn’t seem to be happening in the next century, she needs sugar. Her go-to to raise it quickly is juice, although any sort of sweet will do.

She looks around for a waiter, then scowls. Nathaniel’s bogarting one like the man is his own personal assistant.

Don drums his fingers on the table. “I still think you should get off the rig, Nate, and take over the Malibu practice.”

Nathaniel turns from the server, his voice low. “That’s not what I want, Dad.”

Augustus sets down his wineglass. “Let the boy live, Don. ”

Ash watches Augustus, notes the fatigue in his eyes. The hand to his temple. He’s getting one of his migraines. The conversation is wearing her out; it must be a struggle for Augustus.

A harrumph from Don. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to watch him throw away his life.”

Beside her, Nathaniel laughs tightly. “Because you’re an expert on what a good life looks like.”

“I know what success looks like.” Don jabs at the air with his fork. “And let me tell you, Nate, it’s not you.”

A muscle jumps in Nathaniel’s jaw. His lips are flat, pressed together, white. He looks to the left, contemplates the ocean.

Regret curdles Ash’s stomach. She feels as if she’s set off a bomb that’s been long dormant. The Whitford family dynamics are more like family dynamite.

Her phone’s CGM alarm chimes again.

The sound of a chair scooting back has her looking up.

“Oh, don’t go.” Claire’s standing, holding on to Nathaniel’s arm with an intensity that makes Ash think she hasn’t seen her son in a while.

“We’ll catch up,” Nathaniel says in a strained voice. “We have two weeks.” With that, he kisses his mother. Then he crosses the terrace and disappears into the restaurant.

Moments later, the entrées appear. A glass of orange juice is dropped in front of her.

“I didn’t order this,” she tells the waiter.

“For you,” he says, nodding across the terrace. “From that man who just left.”

Sighing, Ash slumps in her seat and grudgingly picks up the glass of juice Nathaniel ordered. “Fuck.”