2. Ashley
Chapter two
Ashley
Winterridge stood tall in the freshly fallen snow behind black wrought-iron gates that glistened under a thin layer of ice. Icicles hung from the ornate scrollwork, and white powder dusted the reindeer topiaries. Ashley stepped out of the black SUV and waited for the driver to retrieve her bag.
Once her single piece of luggage was in hand, she thanked the driver and made her way to the door.
Her legs weighed her down as if they were trying to turn her around and run for the snow-covered hills in the distance.
Or maybe she could hide in the stables while she tried to find the courage to take those final steps forward.
There were too many memories in that stable.
“Knowing Clint, there’s probably beer in the stable fridge if you need some liquid courage.”
Ashley closed her eyes at the familiar voice, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she turned toward her older brother. Her only brother. “Gabe.”
They had always been close growing up, but so much had changed over the years.
“Look at you,” Gabe said, before pulling her into a hug that smelled of expensive cologne and winter air. “Back at Winterridge. Never thought I’d see the day.”
She held on a second longer than she’d meant to, breathing in the comforting scent that belonged to the only person in the family who ever truly understood her, other than Grandma Lily. “Don’t get used to it,” she said as she finally pulled away. “I’m not planning on staying long.”
“Good.” Gabe ran a hand through his thick black hair. “Neither am I. First chance I get, once all is said and done, I’m getting the hell out of here.”
Ashley blinked at him. “This is your first time back since…?”
“Yeah.” His eyes drifted to the house. “I kept thinking I’d come sooner, but every time I tried, I’d get as far as the highway exit and keep driving past it.”
Ashley’s chest tightened. “Me too.”
Gabe exhaled, a visible puff of air expanding outward. “I thought maybe I’d feel different now that he’s gone.”
“Do you?”
“No,” he said matter-of-factly. “So, what will it be? Go raid Clint’s fridge like when we were teenagers, or go inside and get this over with?”
“As much as I would love to drown myself in alcohol and forget the last twenty-four hours, it is ten in the morning, and despite everything, I still have some standards.”
They stood there for a moment, staring at the heavy doors, neither one moving. Finally, Ashley grabbed the handle of the knocker and banged it against the solid wood.
The door swung open, and Mr. Hawthorne appeared decked out in his impeccably ironed suit and white gloves.
“Miss Ashley, Master Gabe, welcome home to Winterridge.”
Winterridge had been like a second home to Ashley, but it had been so long since she’d been back that she didn’t consider it a home anymore, just a shadow of the past.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” Gabe said, clapping the older man gently on his shoulder. “Good to see you haven’t aged a day.”
Mr. Hawthorne’s lip twitched. “The family is gathering in the parlor. Shall I take your coats?” The man had always been so formal.
As kids, they would take bets to see who could get him to crack first. Whenever he did, it was an instant celebration, though as she got older, Ashley wondered if he only did so because he liked to see them happy.
Ashley hesitated on the threshold, the scent of fresh pine and cinnamon reminding her of Christmas.
If she closed her eyes, she could hear her laughter bouncing off the walls.
Hear Gabe and their cousins, Nate and Cole, sliding down the stairs on their new sleds against Aunt Eleanor’s wishes.
She could see their other cousins, Tori and Taylor, playing with the dollhouse Grandpa had built them and Grandma Lily had decorated.
Ashley had helped, and it was probably the moment she realized she wanted to be an interior designer.
She relished the memory for a moment, warmth spreading through her chest until another face appeared.
Carter.
Twelve years old then, lanky and quiet, but with eyes so blue she could never find a color swatch that compared.
He had helped her hang tiny curtains in the dollhouse windows.
He’d been so careful and focused as if he understood how important every detail was to her.
He never teased her for obsessing over paint swatches or fabrics the way everyone else did.
She blinked hard, forcing the memory away. He was her past, and that chapter had long since ended. She shrugged off her coat and handed it to Mr. Hawthorne.
“Thank you,” she said as he took her and Gabe’s coats and folded them over his arm.
“Shall we?” Gabe motioned toward the parlor, but before they even took a step, the door opened, and Ashley’s eyes darted to the newcomer. Her eyes widened at the figure draped in black.
“Mom? You’re supposed to be in St. Bart’s. What are you doing here?”
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” Gabe asked, coming to stand beside Ashley.
Camille Wetherby—who had refused to remove her name after the divorce—lifted the black veil over her head, revealing a face that was now plucked, tucked, and pinned tighter than a Thanksgiving turkey.
Her lips were two obnoxious and painfully stretched balloons.
She was nearing sixty, but in her mind, she was still thirty-five.
“Darling,” she said, air-kissing both of Ashley’s cheeks. “You didn’t think I’d miss your grandfather’s funeral, did you?”
“You hated Grandpa,” Ashley stated.
Camille Wetherby and Bill Wetherby had barely tolerated each other. The last time they’d been in the same room, Grandpa had called the sheriff to escort her off the Winterridge grounds.
Mom waved a manicured hand in the air, jangling gold bangles. “Our relationship was… complicated, but that doesn’t mean I’m not part of the family.” Her dramatic smoky eyes drifted past Ashley and Gabe, a heartfelt smile curving her lips upward. “Henry.”
Ashley spun around to find her dad staring awkwardly at his ex-wife.
“Camille.” He tugged at his collar, eyes dropping. She cheated. The divorce was messy. It had been years since they’d all been under the same roof.
“Hi Dad.” Ashley waved awkwardly, and Dad hesitantly moved toward her, holding his arm out as she stepped into a side hug. He patted her shoulder before she pulled away.
She didn’t see either of her parents nearly as much as she should, but after the divorce, things were… uncomfortable. Instead of dealing with it, they all seemed to avoid each other. It might not have been the right thing to do, but it was the easy thing to do.
“How you doing, kiddo?” Her heart ached at the familiar nickname. Dad had called her kiddo for as long as she could remember. Hearing it brought her back to this very vestibule, perched on his shoulders as he galloped around pretending to be one of the Clydesdales she was too young to ride.
“Hanging in there. How about you?”
“Same.” He pressed his lips together, a tinge of sadness flashing across his once strong features. Wrinkles lined the edges of his eyes, and deep creases cut into his forehead. His hair, once the color of onyx, was now going gray all over. He was handsome, though, just older.
“Look what the wind blew in,” Aunt Marilyn said as she stepped out of the parlor and joined them in the vestibule.
She appeared sober, which was a pleasant surprise.
Her blonde hair, parted down the middle, was tousled, giving it nice volume and a subtle wave.
Her eyes were red, and if Ashley hadn’t heard her speak, she would have assumed it was from alcohol, but now she guessed it was from tears.
“Aunt Marilyn, long time no see,” Ashley said, attempting to picture the fun-loving aunt she adored instead of the woman who’d hurled a bottle of whiskey against the wall at Grandma Lily’s funeral.
“Ain’t that the damn truth?”
“Where’s Cole?” Ashley asked, scanning the room for her cousin.
Cole was still Aunt Marilyn’s golden boy. While Ashley had a deep affection for her cousin, he had been a bit of a wild child who developed a reputation as they grew older as a charming playboy.
“He and Nate went out to the stables to say hi to Clint.”
“Probably raiding his fridge,” Gabe said in her ear before smiling at Aunt Marilyn.
“Nephew,” she said. “Looking older.”
“As are you, Aunt.”
“Careful, I’m not above whacking you upside the head, even at my age.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Aunt Marilyn’s gaze softened for a split second. “Well, it’s nice to see you both here.” She waved her hand. “Even if it’s for this.”
Ashley almost said, ‘It’s nice to see you sober,’ but she bit her tongue. They were having a nice, civilized moment, and she didn’t want to ruin that. With this family, those moments had been few and far between.
“Dad loved to ruin a good holiday,” Aunt Marilyn added.
“Funny, I thought you held that title,” Mom said, and Ashley swung her gaze to her. Was she trying to get escorted off the property again?
Aunt Marilyn sighed with exaggerated flair. “Why are you even here, Camille?”
“To pay my respects.”
Aunt Marilyn laughed. “If you had any respect for this family, you wouldn’t have fucked the pool boy.”
“Marilyn.” Dad’s voice cut through the vestibule. His jaw tightened as he fixed his sister with the same look Ashley remembered from childhood. The look that said she’d gone too far.
Ashley’s heart broke for the man who loved Camille with his whole heart. Her indiscretion was no longer a raw wound but a battle scar he could never erase.
“Oh please, Henry.” Aunt Marilyn tossed her hair over her shoulder. “It’s not like it’s some big secret. It made the Daily News, for crying out loud.”
Mom crossed her arms over her chest. “At least I didn’t drive my husband away.”
Aunt Marilyn’s eyes widened, and her lip twitched.
“My husband ran off to Aruba with a nineteen-year-old cocktail waitress and left me to raise Cole alone.” She pointed a finger at Camille as if she were delivering a fatal blow with a knife.
“Don’t you dare compare your pool escapades to my life, Camille. ”
“Enough!” Dad yelled with an angry edge, and Ashley flinched. Momentarily speechless, she stared at him. It was the most emotion Ashley had seen from him, maybe ever. “Can we not do this right now? Your father—my father—is dead!”
Silence fell heavily, the only sound being the slight ticking of the grandfather clock in the parlor.
Ashley sighed. “Well, it’s good to see that some things never change,” she mumbled under her breath.
Gabe bumped her shoulder. “We should have gone with the beer.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “Think it’s too late?”
“Want me to fake a stomachache so we can escape?”
She bit back a laugh. “You’re a little old for that now.”
The front door swung open, a blast of cold air filling the vestibule as Nate and Cole stepped inside.
Relief washed over Ashley as she wrapped each of her cousins in a hug, surprised at how much she’d missed them.
A moment later, Tori and Taylor hurried in behind them.
Ashley often felt like the odd one out with her younger cousins, but she never loved them any less.
They were the closest thing she’d ever had to little sisters.
She hugged them and thanked Tori for the birthday card she had sent last month.
“Can you believe this?” Tori asked.
“I never thought he’d actually die,” Taylor said. “He was always so full of life.” Her lip curved upward but fell short of a full smile. Tears built in her amber eyes.
Tori rubbed comforting circles on her sister’s back. The room fell silent again, punctuated only by a few sniffles. Grandpa had been a complicated man, but they had all loved him in their own way.
“Where are your parents?” Ashley asked.
Taylor adjusted the Cartier Tank on her wrist. “They should be here any minute.”
As if they had heard her question, the door opened, and Uncle Rick and Aunt Eleanor joined them.
Aunt Eleanor hugged Ashley. She set the standard for New England old-money style; unfortunately, her attitude was as tight as the buttons on her navy-colored peacoat. Her eyes drifted to Camille, and though she didn’t say a word, her arched eyebrow spoke volumes.
“Is the lawyer here for the reading of the will?” Uncle Rick asked Dad, who shook his head.
Tears pricked Ashley’s eyes at Uncle Rick’s businesslike tone, as though Grandpa’s death were nothing more than a meeting to get through.
“I believe we are all here?” Mr. Hawthorne said at the top of the landing where the two staircases met. Every head turned toward him as he directed his gaze to the left staircase.
What the…?
Her grief vanished beneath a wave of confusion. Ashley’s mouth fell as Gabe’s hand settled on her shoulder.
Gasps erupted, followed by a string of profanity. The confusion evaporated, replaced by a surge of white-hot anger as the Ghost of Christmas Past appeared.
Bill Wetherby wasn’t dead.