Falk edged his car along the narrow trail, emerging from the trees and back onto the road. He turned the wheels west and pressed down on the accelerator.
Those were the decisions that lingered, he thought, glancing over as he flashed past a temporary billboard, its colors bright against the green bushland. The Marralee Valley Annual Food and Wine Festival, it told him, just thirty minutes ahead.
The little things you could have done differently, that was the stuff that haunted you.
2
The déjà vu that had been hovering all journey really kicked into full gear as Falk pulled up the long dirt driveway and came to a stop outside the bluestone cottage.
The town of Marralee had looked much as he’d remembered, and he’d kept an eye out for the local landmarks Raco had pointed out a year earlier. That pub the Raco brothers and their various mates had drunk in when they were old enough; the park bench they’d drunk on when they weren’t. A row of shops, much more gentrified these days, apparently, with painted heritage awnings and handmade soaps and organic vegetables on display. The tree-lined road that led to the school. The cricket pitch. The turnoff to the festival grounds.
Even driving at a tour-guide pace via the scenic route, it had only taken Falk and Raco a handful of minutes last year to travel right through the town and out the other side. The main street had not long disappeared behind them, and the land opened up again when Raco had pointed to the dirt driveway with a painted sign on the fence.
Penvale Vineyard. Tastings by appointment.
At the other end of the driveway, they’d ignored the arrow directing visitors to the office and instead pulled around to the front of the cottage and parked outside Raco’s brother’s front door.
A year on, Falk stood on the step of that same front door and knocked. It always felt to him like trauma should mark surroundings in the same way it could mark people, but that didn’t often happen. Depended what the trauma was, he supposed. Here, anyway, all appeared well. Better than well. The vineyard glowed in the late-afternoon sun with the same fresh vibrancy as it had twelve months earlier. The welcome sign had been recently repainted, and carefully cultivated rows of vines stretched out in pleasing symmetry. Their leaves shimmered bold and green, and from that distance had the illusion of almost breathing, alive in the light of the warm spring day.
From inside the house, Falk heard a clatter of fast footsteps down the hall, followed by the tread of heavier ones. The door opened, and there stood Raco, a little girl at his feet and a one-year-old in his arms.
“You made it. Welcome.” Raco grinned. He didn’t have a free hand so settled for gesturing with a jerk of his head. “Come in, mate. Rita’s out the back. Mind your step, here,” he added as his five-year-old daughter, Eva, clung to his jeans, entangling herself in his legs. Raco’s toddler son rested against his shoulder and fixed Falk with a glassy, accusing gaze.
The kids looked older than Falk had expected, but they always did. Rita texted him photos, but Falk had last seen them in person a good six months ago, when they’d brought Eva to Melbourne to see a musical.
Raco was also looking older these days, Falk couldn’t help but notice. His dark curly hair had definite flecks of gray now, and his boyish face had lines that had never been there before. He was younger than Falk, not even forty yet. But after the past year, for the first time ever, Falk thought he was starting to look his age.
“Beer? Water?” Raco called over his son’s head as Falk followed them down the hall. “Or there’s heaps of wine, obviously.”
“A beer would be great, thanks.”
“No worries.” Raco gently kicked a stray toy out of the way. It may have been his brother’s place, but Raco was as at home there as Falk had ever seen him.
In some ways, Raco had barely changed over the six years Falk had known him. He was still quick with a smile and had an invaluable ability to make people feel that he understood exactly where they were coming from, and actually cared about it as well. But he’d shed the green rawness he’d had when Falk had first met him, out in a barn that had once belonged to a friend of Falk’s. The heat had been blazing then, the property still bearing the bloodied telltale signs of death.
Raco now wore the quiet, solid confidence of a man who had come face-to-face with the worst and had proven himself. He had leaned into his role as sergeant of a small country town and was liked and respected by the locals back in Kiewarra. As a former Kiewarra local himself, Falk thought it was impossible to overstate what an achievement that was.
“He’s here,” Raco called as they came into a large bright kitchen, which in turn opened onto a raised veranda with a spectacular view of the vineyard below. A small woman in a patterned dress was leaning with one hip against the wooden post, her cloud of dark hair shining in the sun. She was ignoring the scenery, instead frowning at a printed flyer in her hand. As Falk stepped out, she put the flyer down on the outdoor table, trapping the corner under her water glass.
“Aaron.” Her face broke into a smile as she came to him and rested her hands on his forearms. Rita Raco looked up at him for a moment before enveloping him in a hug. “Hello. So good to see you.”
She meant it, Falk could tell, and he felt a rush of pure warmth toward them both. That was the thing about Rita and Raco. Their friendship was as close to unconditional as Falk had ever found.
“How long have they let us have you for, in the end?” Rita said as she took Henry and settled him into his high chair with a banana in his hand.
“A week.” Falk had tried for two and got a flat no, which he’d pretty much expected given the current workload. “If that’s okay?”
“Of course.” Rita smiled and didn’t add anything—You really can’t stay longer?—and Falk loved her a little bit more. That was the other thing about the Racos. They never made him feel like what he was offering fell short.
“Thanks for driving all the way out,” Raco called as he disappeared back into the kitchen and reappeared a moment later with three beers. “For a second time.” His smile dipped a little as he passed one each to Falk and Rita.
“Of course. Couldn’t miss this.”
Falk had been surprised and touched on that evening a few months before their son’s birth, when Raco and Rita had come down to Melbourne to take him out for dinner. Falk had suggested a restaurant he knew they’d like, and after they’d ordered, the couple had asked Falk if he’d consider being their baby’s godfather. Also, if it was all right by him, they’d like to name their son Henry Aaron Raco.
“Really? You don’t want to ask someone in the family or—”
“No, mate. We want to ask you,” Raco had said, as matter-of-fact as he ever was. “So what do you reckon?”
“Well, yeah. Thank you.” Falk’s answer came automatically. “What do I have to do?”
“Not too much. Be a good influence.”
“We wanted someone we trusted.” Rita had smiled at him. “So who better?”
Later, when Raco had gone to the bathroom, Rita had scraped her dessert bowl empty, then pushed it aside.
“So, the thing is”—she’d leaned in a little—“his parents and grandparents were quite religious. He might be lapsed, but you can never totally get rid of it. Runs quite deep, you know? He’ll play down this godparent thing, but it actually means something to him.”