Page 7 of For Better or Hearse
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 saysI 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’ttrust 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.”