Page 20 of For Better or Hearse
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 foryou. 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 fraîche 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.”