Rita put down her book and reached out to her husband. “How was it?”
Raco took his wife’s hand. “Okay, I think.”
“That bad?”
He smiled at her. “Just a hard couple of hours.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Zara’s still there—”
After the appeal, Zara had simply taken another handful of flyers and shrugged off Charlie’s suggestion that she call it a night and come home.
“I’ve got my key. I’ll be back before eleven,” she’d said and disappeared into the crowd with Joel. Falk was glad no one else seemed tohave had an appetite to do the same. It hadn’t even been 9:00 p.m., but he’d felt drained.
“And Charlie’s inside.” Raco glanced toward the kitchen. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
“No worries.” Rita shifted Henry’s weight. “I might try putting this one down.”
“Here. Let me have him for a minute.” Raco took his son and nestled him against his shoulder.
Rita stretched, her back clicking. She noticed Falk’s eye on the firepit below, and her expression softened. “It’s okay, they’re just lights.”
Falk craned his head to see. She was right. Instead of glowing embers, there was a nest of solar-powered bulbs.
“Charlie gave in after I wouldn’t let him light it for, like, three years. Used to piss him off in winter, but tough shit.” Raco smiled and pointed to his neck. The skin where his son rested, breathing heavily, had an odd, puckered quality to it. “Couldn’t really argue with this, made him look like an arsehole.”
Falk turned his own left hand over. The skin there had improved a lot, but he could still see the scars.
“The lights are nicer, anyway,” said Rita, and Raco ran his free hand over hers.
Falk settled into his chair, listening to the nocturnal chirps floating from the vines in a gentle chaotic rhythm. “How was the fire season this year?”
“Back in Kiewarra?” Raco said. “Yeah, not too bad this time. Cooler summer, you know.”
“And, hey—” Rita put her glass down. “You heard the river’s running again?”
“Yeah,” Falk said. “I did. That’s great.”
It was. Raco had emailed through some pictures. The locals had lined the banks in the rain to watch as the water had finally forged its way through for the first time in years. Even in the still images, Falk could sense their joy and relief.
You should see it,Raco had written.Beautiful sight.
I should,Falk had replied, both of them knowing that he probably wouldn’t. Not now, at least, but maybe—he thought—one day.
Things had changed a bit in Kiewarra in the last few years. His friends Barb and Gerry Hadler had sold up—their own house, their son’s farm—and moved along the Great Ocean Road. Granddaughter Charlotte was learning to bodyboard. Falk had been to visit them four or five times, and Barb Hadler regularly texted him blurry photos of birds on their porch and the sun over the waves.
A nice bloke from Gippsland called Paul had bought the farm from them, plus the Deacon property next door, looking to roll up his sleeves and make a go of things. He had succeeded, apparently, in both a professional and personal sense. On his second night in town, he’d gone to The Fleece for a drink and spotted a tall blond woman sipping a white wine and making friendly conversation with the wild redheaded barman. Paul had asked if he could buy her next glass, and a few months ago they’d got married in the local church.
“Gretchen sends her best, by the way,” Rita said, reading Falk’s mind.
“How was her wedding?”
“Yeah, good, you know. Small.” Raco glanced at his wife, who was watching Falk over the rim of her glass with a look he couldn’t interpret. “Very small, really, mainly immediate family, couple of locals. How many, Rita?”
“A few,” she said simply.
“Just a few,” echoed Raco, and Falk had to smile.
