Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(61)

“They really don’t.” Gemma shook her head. “That stupid vandalism shows they don’t.”

Falk didn’t reply, but found himself thinking about what she’d said. He’d never considered himself and his dad in that light, but the way Gemma had said it made it feel … what? Sort of true. Maybe.

The phone buzzed again on the table between them, and Gemma leaned forward and tapped the screen.

“Oh, well. All good things…,” she said with a rueful smile. “That’s me summoned, I’m afraid. Issues at the Chardonnay Revival tent.”

“Right. No worries.” Falk tried not to sound disappointed as he drained his glass and pulled himself out of his chair. “Far be it from me to hold up chardonnay’s comeback. Is that really a thing, by the way?”

“Oh my God, yes. Absolutely it is. What is it they say? Wait long enough, and everything comes around again.” Gemma paused. She was looking at Falk in a way that reminded him a little bit of Melbourne. “Speaking of which, it’s been nice to see you.”

“Yeah. You, too, Gemma.”

She was poised to go but still didn’t move. Above, the lanterns shone in the dark, and the soft beat of music floated over from a distant stage. The sounds of crowds were all around them, but outside the caravan, they were alone.

“Listen—”

“I—”

They both stopped. Gemma smiled, and her eyes fell to her phone, silent in her hand. Falk could tell from her face that she was considering something. What, exactly, he wasn’t sure, but when she looked up again, she seemed a little awkward.

“Aaron, I wanted to explain, about last year.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know, but I want to. Because I had a really nice time with you—back then, and again just now—” She shifted her weight but didn’t come any closer. “And when you asked for my number in Melbourne, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to see where things could go.” She gave a small shrug. “I just think it’s pretty obvious where that would be.”

“Is it?” Falk was genuinely surprised.

“Yeah. It really is.” Gemma looked at him in the low light. “I mean, tell me, what does that diary of yours look like?”

He pictured it. The pages were creased and thick with meetings, appointments, reminders, deadlines.

“Busy, right?” She read his face. “It has to be, with the kind of job you do. Seven days a week, probably?”

She waited as though hoping Falk might contradict her, but he had to nod.

“So, what happens?” Gemma said. “We exchange numbers, and then what? Even with the best will in the world, we’re not going to be chalking up regular visits and three-day long weekends. Realistically.”

“We could try.” He wanted to, he realized. He would actually try. “Give it a go.”

“Yeah, true. We could,” she said. “But say it actually works. Then what? The long-term situation’s even worse. You’ve worked hard to get where you are. I have, too. I don’t want to leave here. And last I heard, Marralee’s a long way from an AFP hub.”

“Well, yeah. Okay. But—”

Gemma waited. Falk tried to think of an answer to that. He couldn’t.

“Ten years or so ago—” she said, when it was clear he wasn’t going to go on. Her voice softened. “Look, Aaron, I wouldn’t have been saying any of this when I was younger. You wanted my number back then, you would have gotten it, no question. But that’s not where I am now. And I’ve got Joel to think about, too. So I don’t know exactly what the right relationship looks like, but I know it’s not an interstate romance. It’s just not, I’m sorry.”

She did sound it, he thought. But the regret seemed matched by resolve.

“I’ve done the whole will-he, won’t-he, wait-by-the-phone thing in the past,” Gemma said. “And it’s not for me anymore. I don’t need snatched weekends and champagne and sunsets. I want help bringing in the supermarket shopping and someone to talk to and watch TV with. The day-to-day stuff, you know?”

They looked at each other, and finally Falk nodded.

“Yeah, look, I do know. And that makes sense,” he said at last. “I just wish—”

She waited, but eventually he had to shrug.

He managed to find a smile, despite himself. “I wish I had an answer, though.”

“I know. Me, too.” Gemma’s phone buzzed again in her hand.

“You’d better go,” Falk said, and she nodded. “But—” He stopped. He wanted to say something more, but couldn’t think what. “Thanks for telling me.”

“No, that’s okay,” she said. “Thanks for understanding. Because it’s really not you, or anything you did. The opposite, if anything. I just know myself too well and when I look down that road—” Gemma shook her head, a small smile on her face as she turned to leave. “Honestly, in the best possible way, I could see myself wasting so much time on you.”





20


Rita and Raco were sitting outside the guesthouse when Falk trudged up the vineyard driveway. They had a bottle of wine open on the small table between them; Rita was reading a novel while Raco had his head tilted back with his forearm across his eyes, possibly asleep. Falk smiled, glad to see them. It had felt like a long walk home, not least because whichever way he turned it, and he’d tried a few different ways, he thought that ultimately Gemma had probably gotten it right.