The Vanishing Girls by Callie Browning (great novels of all time .txt) 📗

“Is this the kind of scenery you’re more accustomed to in Ten Men’s?” Holden asked, jutting his chin at the view.

“Well,” Eileen said as she draped her napkin over her lap, “it’s missing an old woman who shouts at strangers while she plays with stray cats, but I guess it will do.”

She’d had no idea he could smile so broadly; for the first time, she realized he had a dimple in his left cheek. That tiny detail transformed him, making him boyish and handsome instead of brusque and stoic. His black jacket was tossed over the back of his chair with his tie neatly folded inside the pocket. He had unfastened the top two buttons of his white shirt and folded back the sleeves. Eileen fidgeted in her chair. How could the absence of a tie and jacket make her feel like she was on a date instead of a business lunch? She hid behind the menu to conceal the blush that crept up her face. Since the stormy night when her car had broken down, she’d replayed their conversation in their mind, wondering if Holden could possibly have any interest in her. It wasn’t lost on her that she happily rushing out of the house whenever he called her to go on grief visits or enjoyed embalming bodies with him in the intimacy of the chilly prep room. She wondered if he’d noticed her furtive glimpses at him, had noticed how her fingers lingered when she him handed pens and syringes.

“How do you like the job so far?” he asked.

“I feel bad for saying this, but it’s fun in an odd way,” she said, wrinkling her forehead in bemusement.

“Why is that bad?” Holden replied, his eyes worried.

Eileen quirked an eyebrow. “It’s a funeral home, not a circus. It isn’t the kind of place people hang out when they’re looking for a good time.”

He chuckled. “You’re not wrong. For me, it’s all I’ve ever known so I don’t associate it with any particular feeling. But I understand why people see it as a place of despair.”

Holden sipped his champagne and pursed his lips, pleased with how the tiny bubbles tickled his palate. “As a boy, I wondered if that’s why other children avoided me. They acted like I was the Heart Man, coming to eat their organs at lunchtime.”

“That doesn’t sound too nice.”

“When Paul started school I realized it had nothing to do with my father being an undertaker. Paul had friends by the bushel. I know now that being so tall and not skylarking at break-time was the reason.” He tilted his head to one side as though amused by his own revelation. “What was your life like growing up in a fishing village?”

“Fishy.”

Holden cocked his head to the side as a smile tugged at his lips, as though he would have been disappointed if she had answered any other way. “And?”

“It was kind of dull, to be honest, and I didn’t have many friends.” She bit into her rosemary bread and chewed. “I’m a barrel baby, so you know how the rumour mill goes crazy when that kind of thing happens.”

“Barrel baby?” His face betrayed confusion as he said the words. “What do you mean?”

“I wasn’t born in a barrel if that’s what you’re thinking. At least I don’t think I was,” she said, pondering her words for a second. “I was raised with things that came out of a barrel from overseas. Those big cardboard-looking barrels that Bajans in the States send back with rice, games, flour, school shoes and anything else they can squeeze into them.”

“Oh, I get you now. So your grandmother raised you?”

Eileen pursed her lips. “I don’t know my mother or grandmother. All I know is the lady who raised me and her cousin."

"Don't you have any relatives?"

Eileen tapped the butter knife against the table and avoided his eyes. "Yes, but we never met. I spoke to the person on the phone once. That conversation didn't go very well...so I haven't heard them since."

"May I ask why?"

Her eyes met his. "They lied to me. But...a part of me regrets how I acted back then. I’d still like to get to know my family someday."

"I can understand that."

"When you called the other night..." She hesitated and rubbed her thumbnail against her lip. "I thought that if the victim looked like me that maybe she was a relative."

Recognition lit his eyes. “That’s why you’ve been trying to find out who killed the girls. Because you thought Michelle might be related?”

“It started that way, I guess,” she relented. “But there are other reasons. Speaking of the victims, did you hear from your contact about the twitchy guy in the brown uniform?”

“No. But if you want to change the subject, you could say that directly.”

Eileen sighed. Darned Holden and his sharp insight. “I didn’t grow up rough, despite what you might think. I went to private school, did art and ballet on weekends. The lady who raised me was one of the sweetest people you’d ever meet, but it’s not the same as having a mother, is it?”

Eileen saw the way Holden’s face changed. She hated having to sing for her supper. She made a mental note not to go to any more of these office luncheons.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “The truth doesn’t need pity.”

Straightening his cutlery, Holden thought for a moment before he said, “You’re very unusual in some ways. There’s no pretence about you. It’s refreshing.”

She smiled and said, “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said in response to that particular statement. Thank you.”

Their meal arrived, and for a few minutes, there was only the roar of the ocean and the tinkle of cutlery around them to fill the silence. Eileen looked out to the water while Holden chewed, his expression thoughtful before he said, “Your life seems very interesting despite what you say. You're smart and you've had a solid upbringing. So the bigger question is..." he