Page 21 of For Better or Hearse
Nathaniel takes a bite of his crab cake and chews slowly before replying. “I work on an oil rig. TheSophia 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 wearingherout; 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.