by Rachel Caine
“Well, then, you must join me to celebrate your first day. Do you like French food?”
She’d no idea, so of course she nodded, smiling, and tried not to seem as out of her element as she felt. She was glad now that she’d gone with the nicer suit. Another note to self: buy way more business clothes. She hadn’t thought about it back at her apartment, but now that she was here, she could see that wearing the same two suits five days a week was bound to get old—not just for her, but for her coworkers, who’d think she was a charity case. That was something that hadn’t really occurred to her; she was used to having uniforms for work—same thing, different day, all crisply laundered and starched, but nothing individual.
Her credit card would withstand another couple of purchases…. Well, barely. That last trip to Crate & Barrel hadn’t been strictly necessary. When was payday for this job? Oh, yeah, not for at least two more weeks. Damn. She hoped the bill wouldn’t come due in the meantime. Awkward.
“Let me get my purse,” she said. She retrieved it from the desk drawer—the bag was a cheap leatherette thing, but as nice as she could afford. She hoped he wouldn’t look too closely, or judge too harshly. He seemed very well tailored, the kind of man who paid attention to designer labels and the little details. She’d never really been like that. If her shoes were cheap and made in China, well, so what, who cared … but she could already see that her attitude was going to have to change about such things. Permanently. She thought she’d left all that spit-and-polish crap behind her, but she should have known; once in the army, always in the army. This was just an army that wore business suits, and her new CO was almost certainly going to turn out to be a total pain in the ass.
They nearly always did.
Getting out of the funeral home was a shock, because Bryn still hadn’t gotten used to the beauty of being home. Well, not home home—her family lived in the not-very-scenic town of Clovis, New Mexico—but being back in the States had given her a new appreciation of how lovely it could be.
Especially southern California. It was a land of contrasts—the cool blue of the Pacific rolling into the distance, shrouded with a cloak of mist at the horizon, and the pale desert hills studded with cacti and patches of scrub trees. Stark and lovely.
Bryn couldn’t believe she was living here. Couldn’t believe it was her home now. It still seemed like some kind of dream; any second now, she’d wake up sweating in her uncomfortable bunk and start another day of IED Russian roulette.
No, it’s real, she told herself. This is real. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath of sweet, clean air—dry, warm, but not the oppressive stinging heat of Iraq.
“Bryn?” Mr. Fairview was standing at his Town Car, holding open the passenger door.
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Just enjoying the view. It’s beautiful.“
Fairview smiled a little, and to her eyes, it looked cynical. “It’s expensive,” he said. “When my great-great-grandfather built this place, I’m sure he did it for the cheap land; today, the taxes alone are ruinous.” She shot him a startled glance. “Oh, not that we’re hurting for money, Bryn. One thing about the dead: they just never stop coming.”
That was one of the more unsettling—and yet weirdly comforting—things Bryn had ever heard.
The drive down the winding road to the restaurant in La Jolla took only ten minutes, but it seemed longer simply because of the silence in the car. Fairview, Bryn discovered, was not prone to chat. That was fine; she was used to silence—loved it, in fact. Her family life had been full of noise and chaos, and most of her college memories were of loud hall parties and stereo wars, not studying. The army, though, had introduced her to a whole new scale of what it meant to be noisy.
She’d learned to sleep through anything, when she had the chance to sleep; she’d also learned to relish the calm, cool peace of silence.
It settled between her and Fairview like the fog on the ocean.
“Here we are,” he finally said, and turned the car onto La Jolla’s main drag, lined with colorful shops, restaurants, and high-priced hotels. It was beautiful, in a way that most other shopping districts couldn’t quite pull off. Maybe it was the sea view, since the hill sloped right down to the rocks and the gently rolling waves. Fairview expertly negotiated the narrow parking space with the big car and shut the engine off.
As he reached for the handle of his door, Bryn said, “Sir, can I ask a question?”
He glanced over at her, surprised. “Of course.”
“You have relatively few employees, sir. I mean, there are only four of us that I’m aware of; is that right? The receptionist, you, me, and—”
“Freddy,” he said. “Our downstairs man. Yes.”
“That’s a very small crew for even a small mortuary. I’m a little concerned about our ability to cover—”
“Don’t you worry; we’ll do fine,” he said. “We used to employ a half dozen people in your position alone, but the fact is, even though people keep dying, our business has fallen off some. More people choosing cheaper corporate-run funeral homes; you know how it is. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have work. Some days it’ll be hectic, but I’m sure you can handle it. I outsource body pickups. That’s half of the work right there.”
He walked her to the door, opened it gallantly, and the maitre d’ showed them to a table. It was all very fancy, to Bryn’s eyes: real tablecloths, crystal, fine silverware, and china plates. The waitress wore nicer shoes than she had on.
Once served, Bryn stared doubtfully down at a plate full of what looked like weeds drenched in sauce, and picked around with her fork. She decided the green stuff looked safe enough, and tried it. Like lettuce, but with spice. Not too bad. Mom would have called it yard salad, she thought, and almost choked on a suppressed laugh. Ain’t we grand now?
“How’s your appetizer, Bryn?” Mr. Fairview asked. He stirred a cup of coffee, making it look like the most elegant thing in the world, with carefully ordered swirls of his spoon in the small china cup, never once making any uncouth noise about it.
She swallowed and managed a smile. “Very good, sir. Thank you.” She’d let him order for her, and if the salad was this weird, she had no idea what she was in for with the main course—but she’d eaten worse overseas; that much was certain. It was part of why her tastes remained so damn simple.
“I have to admit, you’re the first woman I’ve ever hired who served in the military,” he said, and nodded to the hovering, perfectly dressed waiter who waited to refill their water glasses. The whole restaurant had that hushed, whispering elegance to it that made Bryn feel every thread of her not-designer clothes and Payless shoes. There were ladies in here wearing jewelry that cost more than her annual salary. “I’m very interested to hear about your experience. You served in Iraq, I understand?”
Baghdad seemed like it wasn’t in the same universe as this place, and Bryn felt a creeping sense of unreality in even tackling the topic. “I’m afraid it’s not very interesting,” she said, hoping he’d take the hint. She quickly took another bite of the salad. Not so bad. She could get used to it. You could get used to anything, in time.
“On the contrary, I find it fascinating that someone like you would choose to sign up during a time of war,” Mr. Fairview said. “That tells me quite a bit about your character, you know.”
Not so much about her character as her upbringing, Bryn imagined, but she didn’t see any need to tell him about growing up poor in a family with two parents on minimum wage and six brothers and sisters, and doing it in a semirural town where aspiring to go to an Ivy League college was looked on as suspiciously elitist. Joining the military was a good, proper thing to do—even for a girl, these days—and if it paid off those expensive college bills, well, that was all right. Her brother Tate had followed in her footsteps, right into the uniform. He was a smart kid, the only smart one in the family, really. She had hopes for him.
She’d taken too long to answer, she realized, and covered it
with a smile that felt shy. “You flatter me, Mr. Fairview,” she said. “The army seemed like the best option to help me pay off my student loans. It trained me, showed me the world, and gave me a good start for the rest of my life.” That sounded straight out of the recruiting brochures, and it said nothing at all about the sheer hell she’d gone through—the merciless and constant hazing, the blatant discrimination, the harsh conditions and constant fear of her surroundings and even of her comrades. She’d learned a lot, all right.
Mostly, she’d learned she never wanted to go to war again, and to avoid those who did want to.
And to keep her mouth shut about all of it.
“You’re a very private person, aren’t you, Bryn?” her boss asked, and she got the laser examination from those weirdly cold gray eyes again. “Not that I mind that. I like to keep things professional at the office, of course. But one more question: working with the dead and the bereaved doesn’t bother you? Because I find that a number of recent entrants to the funeral home profession aren’t emotionally suited to the requirements.”
It seemed a weird time to be asking the question; after all, he’d already hired her. But she remembered that Fairview was known—notorious, in fact—for going through funeral directors quickly. She had the feeling that every conversation, every seemingly innocent moment, was another evaluation.
Yeah, that was relaxing. She tried to breathe and eat her salad without letting him see her discomfort.
“I don’t mind the dead,” she said, after she’d swallowed her bite of who knew what kind of weeds. “Bodies are just shells built of muscle and bone. They smell, and they’re messy—alive or dead. But there’s nothing frightening about a corpse once you get over the idea that they’re …” She couldn’t think how to put it, and then it clarified in her mind. “Once you get over the fact that you’re just like them. And will be them, in the end.”
“Ah,” he said. She’d surprised him, apparently, or at least that was how she interpreted the quick up-and-down motion of his carefully groomed eyebrows.
She looked down at her salad and continued, more quietly. “We shouldn’t ever forget that, out of respect.”
“No,” he agreed, in the same tone. “No, we shouldn’t.”
The waiter arrived and whisked away her uneaten salad, and delivered the main course. To her relief, it was some kind of chicken in sauce. Delicious. She didn’t miss her PB and J at all, and when Mr. Fairview poured her a glass of wine, she let herself drink it and enjoy the rest of the meal.
She almost regretted going back to work, in fact.
I could get used to this, she thought.
Especially if she didn’t have to pay the crazy expensive bill.
* * *
There was a second appointment for her, two hours later, in the midafternoon. It was—oddly enough—almost exactly the way Mr. Fairview had role-played it for her—a man coming in to make arrangements for his deceased brother. Only this man was a whole lot younger than Mr. Fairview—Bryn put him at around thirty—and he had a blank, closed-in face and watchful eyes that really didn’t look too grief-stricken to her.
Mr. Fairview apparently had other things to do, because he just introduced the two of them and then left. I’ m flying solo, she thought, and instead of making her nervous, it made her feel steadier.
“Mr. Fideli,” she said, and shook the man’s hand. “How may I assist you today?”
“My brother,” he said. “He’s passed away. I’m looking around for a place to hold his funeral, take care of things, you know.”
There was something about Mr. Fideli, something familiar. Not him, but his type. From the close-cut hair to the straightforward way he assessed her to the way he sat alertly on the couch … Military, or recently cashiered out. He wasn’t in uniform, but you didn’t have to see the clothes to know the man. He might have seen it in her, too; she knew it showed in her straight back and the way she held herself. If he did, he didn’t comment.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, sir,” she said. She did a lightning-fast glimpse around to be sure her materials and tools were in the right places. They were, although Mr. Fideli didn’t strike her as the type to need much in the way of tissues. “Can I offer you anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?”
“No.”
Bryn cleared her throat. “May I ask how he passed …?”
“What does that matter?”
“I’m afraid it does matter when it comes to suggesting options,” she said. “If he was in some sort of accident, Mr. Fideli—”
“Joe,” he said, and smiled at her. It was a nice smile, a real one. She found that … odd. Most people were a lot less at ease. “He died in the hospital. Cancer.”
“I see.” So no restorative work. Damn. “Are you thinking of interment, or—”
“Probably cremation.”
Cremation wasn’t much cheaper, when it came down to it, and she immediately zeroed in on the up-selling aspect of the urns. When people found out the cremains came in a plastic bag in a cardboard box, even the most cost-conscious of them usually opted for something better.
She reached for the brochures, but Mr. Fideli did something unusual—or at least, she thought it was unusual. “Before we talk about that stuff,” he said, “can I take a tour?”
“A tour,” she repeated. “Oh, you mean of the viewing rooms?”
“To start with, sure.”
She’d been planning to do that, but normally one settled on the basics up front. The order of events didn’t really matter, though, and she led him out of her office, down the lush carpeted hallway, out to the viewing rooms. Two were occupied, and they looked in from the doorways on the floral displays, the coffins like centerpieces, the grieving—or the bored, or the curious—who filled the seats. She took her time demonstrating the empty room, showing him all the features available, describing the services. Mr. Fideli was a silent observer, patient and unhurried. He didn’t check his watch once.
When she’d run out of things to say about the viewing room, she showed him the caskets, explaining that he’d need to choose one for the viewing even if he were opting for cremation. She was angling toward the urn display when he said, unexpectedly, “Could I see downstairs?”
She blinked and checked herself. “I’m sorry?”
“You know, downstairs. I guess you do your own embalming on the premises?” He said it without a flicker of emotion. Bryn was thrown for a second, then decided he just wanted to be sure they wouldn’t truck his brother’s body all over the city.
“Absolutely,” she said. “We have a very fine embalming facility downstairs. State of the art.” Not that she’d actually seen it herself, yet.
“So I understand.” Fideli’s eyes fixed on hers, and stayed there. “May I see it, please?”
You never said no to a client, so she was searching for a way to turn it around when she spotted Mr. Fairview coming out of his office. He must have seen that she needed help, because he came toward them with a confident stride and smile, extending his hand to Fideli. They shook hands, looking oh so cordial. Bryn kept her own smile with an effort as she said, “Mr. Fideli would like to view the preparation area, sir.”
Mr. Fairview sent her a quick glance, then guided Mr. Fideli back into Bryn’s office with one hand casually placed on their guest’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said, sounding like he’d love to take a recently bereaved on a downstairs tour of the one place they should never go. “It’s strictly off-limits to anyone but licensed personnel. Health concerns, you understand. And, of course, we wish to treat those entrusted to us with the highest order of care. That means respecting their privacy at all times.”
Something strange flickered over Mr. Fideli’s expression; Bryn couldn’t quite catch it, but she thought it might have almost been … amusement? “Of course,” he said. “Sorry. I was just curious. I wanted to be sure my brother would be treated right.”
“Perfectly understand
able,” Bryn assured him, although it wasn’t. “Now, let’s talk about the urn you’ll want….”
She didn’t feel that she handled it all that well, but Mr. Fairview didn’t step in for the rest of the meeting, and Mr. Fideli didn’t seem unhappy with it, either. She shook hands with him at the end—he was taller than she was, with a very firm handshake—and Mr. Fideli walked off with a handful of information, but no contract or commitment.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” Mr. Fairview said, when she closed the door and looked at him in mute guilt. “Sometimes you simply can’t close the deal. Mr. Fideli is what we like to call a comparison shopper. He’ll come back eventually. Usually, the first place he stops will also be his last. He just wants to satisfy himself that he isn’t getting ripped off. I’d be willing to bet that his brother hasn’t even passed on yet.”
“Oh,” she said. “Wow. That was … strange. They’re usually more upset than that, aren’t they?”
“Mr. Fideli did seem unusually self-contained. But from the way he carried himself, I would assume he is ex-military, like you. That would probably explain it.” Mr. Fairview looked at his watch. “I have a four thirty set up with a Mrs. Granberry. I’d like you to take the lead on that one as well, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, of course.” It was four fifteen. Bryn rushed to the bathroom, fussed with her hair, and applied just a touch of lipstick. She did some deep-breathing exercises, and smiled professionally at the mirror.
There was a little too much brightness in her cheeks. She really needed to work on looking less happy.
Bryn was standing right beside Mr. Fairview when the front bell tinkled its mournful note, and Mrs. Granberry—a neat, dry-eyed woman with an iron distance in her eyes—came in trailing a sad-looking teenage daughter who refused to raise her head.
Mr. Fairview immediately bent his head close to Bryn‘s. “Here we go,” he said. “Just remember: stay focused on what we’re here to do. Don’t let yourself get carried away on the tide of emotion.”
