Exiles (Aaron Falk #3)(76)

“Dad says I have to come home. Oh—” Zara’s head appeared. Her gaze flicked down to their hands, then up again, her eyes dancing with surprise and faint amusement. “Sorry. My grandma’s arriving tomorrow for the christening, and he doesn’t want me out late. So…” Her voice was coy. “When are you going home, Aaron?”

“Well, I guess that would be right now, Zara,” Falk said. He felt rather than saw Gemma smile, and she gave his fingers a final small squeeze as they stood. Falk helped her carry the bottles in, and they looked at each other across her kitchen as Zara rattled around gathering up her bits and pieces to leave. Gemma’s arm brushed Falk’s as they moved through to the hallway.

“Bye, Joel,” Falk called from the front door, and the boy gave a wave.

“Thanks, Aaron. See you.”

“And hey, good luck at the christening tomorrow.” Gemma leaned against the porch post as they stepped into the night, the light spilling out behind her. “Your big moment. We’ll look for you there.”

“Yes. That’s right.” Falk smiled. “And thanks again for tonight. This was—” What? A lot of things. “So nice.”

“Yeah.” She smiled back. “It was.”

The street was quiet as Falk and Zara walked along, past the homes and down through the bushland again toward the now-familiar reservoir track.

“Gemma’s awesome,” Zara said out of nowhere, into the dark. “She’s a good person, you know? I like going to their place.”

“Yeah,” Falk said. “That was fun.”

He could feel her curiosity buzzing, but he said no more.

“I always think she’s pretty as well.” Zara cracked first. “Not like Naomi is, obviously, but different. She has a nice face.” She looked over so expectantly that Falk had to laugh.

“She does.” He pictured it. She really did.

As they neared the water, Zara’s expression dimmed a little.

“And, hey, thanks again for helping Joel,” she said. “With the cleanup and the video.”

“I’m not expecting to be much help with that.” Falk looked over until she met his eye. “I need you to be realistic.”

“No, I know. But just taking him seriously is good.” She picked up a stone and threw it into the dark water as they walked. She had a good arm. “He deserves to be listened to. And I know Dad thinks I’m clutching at straws, believing what he says about Mum not coming through the exit near him, but I do believe him. I know Joel would tell me the truth because that’s how he is. He’s not doing it for any other reason.”

“Like what?”

“Well, the fact that he likes me.”

Falk, who privately agreed with that assessment, kept his face neutral. He remembered what it was like to be that age, and felt a certain solidarity with the young awkward guy with his cleaning cloths and quiet way. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” Zara smiled and shrugged. “I do think so. But he knows we’re just friends so he doesn’t push for anything more. He’s good with it, acts normal. That’s why I like him. But still—” She flashed Falk a little witchy glance, her voice suddenly lighter. “Sometimes things are obvious, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Definitely, I think.” She glanced back in the direction of Gemma’s house so meaningfully that she nearly cricked her neck. “Because you can just tell, can’t you?”

Her smile was infectious, and Falk couldn’t stop his own. “Tell what?”

“When there’s love in the air.”





25


Young Henry had brought out the sun for his christening day, and Falk woke early to the light filtering through the blinds. Outside, the vineyard was still quiet, and he lay for a while in the cool linen sheets, staring at the guesthouse ceiling and thinking about the night before.

He had liked Gemma’s place, a lot. Liked just being there, sitting around the wide kitchen table, eating lasagna from mismatched plates. But it had been the small things as well. The basil had apparently come from the row of herbs she was growing with mixed success in pots along the windowsill; and as he’d been leaving, Falk had realized the large framed painting in the entrance hall that he’d assumed to be modern art, with its bold blue strokes creating no discernible image, was in fact a piece of childhood artwork by Joel.

The house had felt … familiar. The word came to Falk instantly, and he rejected it just as quickly. He had never lived somewhere like that, with herbs in window pots and a child’s painting hung like it was art. Welcoming was perhaps what he was reaching for, he decided, while at the same time picturing his own flat, lying empty back in St. Kilda.

His place was absolutely fine, no argument to be had there. Good location. A decent long-term investment. Falk kept it clean, and it was fully functional in the sense that it met all his needs. He frowned now up at the guesthouse ceiling. He could obviously grow herbs in his kitchen if he wanted to. Pick his own basil leaves and make lasagna. There was nothing stopping him. Although lasagna was a bit of a hassle for one. Lots of leftovers.

Falk’s thoughts skipped to Joel, hanging out of the veranda door, asking to finish off the food. He’d been much more relaxed at home. Different from earlier, down by the reservoir with his phone and that deeply unsettling video of broken barriers and angry tire marks and early grief.