One
Death brought people together. It paid no mind to schedules, to relationships, to distance. And the more senseless and untimely the death, the more people seemed to fracture. Bree Foster, who had so often been described as full of life, was now anything but, and standing in the living room of the house he had grown up in, surrounded by mourners gathered for her wake, Ethan was struggling to believe that his sister-in-law was gone. Here one moment, gone the next – leaving behind a family she adored, and a brother-in-law she hardly knew.
All eyes were on him, despite the occasion. He was neither the deceased nor the widower, yet his presence commanded attention. The reprobated wanderer, home to offer his condolences after years of neglect. Dean’s kid brother. The youngest son, the youngest Foster.
Ethan thumbed his beer. He knew what they all thought of him. And if he couldn’t guess, the locals were kind enough to whisper within earshot. A drinking problem. A falling-out with his brother. Off the tracks, headed for ruin.
Some of it was true enough.
The room hosting the wake was tasteful and bright – a cruel contrast to the occasion for which they were all gathered, wearing their black clothes and sombre expressions. Bree’s death was premature and tragic. Thirty-two short years ended by a wrong step in the shower.
She was survived by her loving husband, Dean, and two children, Rowan and Nina. Then there was the modest craft shop on Tynes Street; no one quite knew what would become of it now. Those were the big details, and Ethan wished he’d known her better so he could guess at the smaller ones. Perhaps she’d been marinating meat or hemming trousers the day she’d died. There was probably a television show she’d recorded that would wait and wait to be seen.
He pushed his tie, straightening a non-existent crease, and looked around the room. He kept his gaze high or low, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes.
Dean sat in the far corner of the room, his head bowed. Ethan was relieved to see him sitting. There had been a couple of moments at the cemetery when Ethan had thought Dean’s legs would buckle.
Nina sat on Dean’s lap. Her tiny hands grasped her father’s shirt collar and her big brown eyes were overbright. She frowned at the many people in her house, at the things they said to her and the food they ate. Ethan was intrigued by the range of emotions that crossed her small heart-shaped face. People said she looked like Bree.
Before the funeral, it had been two years since Ethan had seen Bree, but looking at Nina now, he could see the mother–daughter similarities. Fair skin, freckles. Long limbs and a little pinched nose. Nina had the Foster hair: wild and thick, curled like her dad’s. But auburn like her mum’s, not brown.
Rowan stood at Dean’s elbow, so much bigger than Ethan remembered. So similar in looks to Ethan that it was almost like falling through time. The kid was stoic. Expressionless. Unlike his sister, the whispers and the palpable grief didn’t appear to reach him. He was a child apart.
Ethan could empathise.
Dean’s eyes found Ethan in the crowd. Ethan thought to approach, then reconsidered. He lifted his beer in his brother’s direction and drank instead, feeling inadequate and unwelcome in equal measure. Dean looked away. He pulled his son close. Moments later the three were lost from sight, surrounded by mourners in black pants and shirts and dresses.
Some funerals reunited people who were best kept apart, and this was one such occasion.
Ethan swallowed his warm beer and turned to the buffet, not hungry, but desperate for something to do with his hands.
He was staying in this house, in his old bedroom; a possible sanctuary from the morbidity and scrutiny, but it was too early to bow out. His absence would be noticed and discussed. It would reach Dean, who would consider it rude, and Dean wronged never ended well. Ethan sighed quietly and turned his back on the stairs to reduce the temptation. He picked up a mini quiche, lost his appetite but ate it anyway, then he swapped his empty bottle for a fresh beer and started thinking about finding a seat.
However, a distraction presented itself in the form of a blonde. All legs and colour, the woman appeared to be in her early thirties, and she’d truly outdone herself. Her short yellow sundress defied the occasion. Her leather knee-high boots shattered the frock’s innocence and her hair hinted at recent passion, looking styled yet rumpled.
In her long-fingered hand she clutched a glass tumbler. Bourbon, he guessed, and ice.
The way she was holding herself – chest out, chin up, lips pressed into a pretty pout – told Ethan she’d had a number of such beverages, and was spoiling for a scene.
He approached. Smooth as malt, he eased into her space, a breath away from her carefully painted face, and helped himself to a mouthful of her drink. Her bourbon kicked his beer’s arse, and he knew he couldn’t go back.
‘Excuse me,’ she began, indignant. She drew back, then recognised him as the infamous brother-in-law and paused.
‘Walk with me,’ he murmured. He pressed his thumb to her hip, suggestively drew her against him.
The fight in her eyes became a look of intrigue. Then hunger.
She allowed him to steer her from the room and onto the back verandah. Ethan spared a moment to admire the surrounds – wild country, lone gums, long grasses and grazing cattle – before he took the lead and walked to the boundary fence. Her pace slackened, her heels sinking into the earth. He glanced back at the house, determined they were beyond earshot, and propped his elbow against a rotted post.
‘Mona,’ she volunteered.
Ethan didn’t care.
‘How long are you staying in town?’ she pressed, not needing his name, clearly glorying in his infamy.
He played the game. Flirted, touched. He remembered her now. She’d gone through high school with Dean and Bree. And his absence these past two years didn’t stop him from seeing the grudge she carried in her jealous heart.
He took advantage of her interest in him, knowing it carried no more than a desire to conquer someone who had once belonged to Bree. The women had gone to school together. Ethan had been two grade levels below them, but even he’d known they’d been rivals.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said. He ran a finger along her collarbone, keeping his eyes from hers to better cover his intentions. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Twelve Fulton Street.’
‘Forty-five minutes. Go now. Be ready for me.’
She left as fast as her boots could carry her. Ethan remained propped against the fence, her glass in hand. He rolled the ice, drank.
Peace was not to last.
A man approached, six foot, freshly shaven but ill at ease in the suit he wore. Time had found him; he’d aged around the eyes and his tousled black hair was as long as Ethan’s fingers now. He joined Ethan against the fence and gazed out at the wild Australian country.
‘People are talking,’ he said. The first words they’d exchanged face-to-face in far too long. ‘They’re saying you’re leaving with Mona.’
‘That would be a challenge. Mona’s already left.’ Ethan watched a bead of condensation slip between his thumb and index finger. ‘But better they talk about that.’
‘Inspired choice. I couldn’t quite think how I was going to manage that woman. Every idea I had involved throwing her over my shoulder and dragging her out screaming.’
‘She would’ve liked that.’
Caleb O’Hara chuckled. ‘Yeah, I bet. It’s good to see you, man.’
‘Likewise.’
‘Shame it isn’t under better circumstances. But you’re all about the highlights.’
They were quiet a moment.
Ethan frowned and turned to him. ‘Lowlight, you think?’
Cal nodded. ‘Yeah, I reckon so.’
‘What can I do?’
‘I dunno. What can any of us do? It’s enough that you’re here, I think.’
Ethan looked back at the house: double storey, with a pitched roofline and wide windows to accommodate the striking views. His childhood home had seen too much loss in its lifetime; he imagined that the weight of it sagged the roof beams. That the bad memories bled into the foundations and poisoned the structure. Unlike his brother, he hadn’t been able to escape the place fast enough.
Ethan had been sixteen and Dean nineteen when their parents had died. It had been just the two of them until Ethan had left town two years later. The house had been too grand a place and too big a property for the both of them to manage then, and looking at the incomplete back verandah, the rotted fence posts and the flaking paint, Ethan recognised that it overwhelmed his brother even now.
From where Ethan stood with Caleb he could see two high-backed wooden chairs near the sizeable creek that fringed the property. A willow tree shaded them, its rope-like branches licking over the wooden slats like hair. Ethan liked the intimacy of them. Liked them all the more because they hadn’t been here when his parents had.
‘How’s the family?’ When Cal didn’t answer, Ethan glanced at him. ‘Are we just supposed to talk about death today?’
‘Are you kidding? I’ve been desperate to talk about something else since I woke up. The family’s . . .’ He paused, as if testing the answer in his mind. ‘Good.’
‘Your dad still work at the plant yard?’
The yard was a farmer’s wet dream – tractors, mowers, power tools and the like. It flanked both sides of a road, which meant customers didn’t even have to get out of their cars. Ethan remembered driving through with the neighbours once – he’d stood balanced in the tray of the ute and stacked whatever had been handed to him as the car had cruised along at four k an hour.
Cal nodded. ‘He owns it now. Bought it last summer.’
‘No kidding? That’s great.’
‘Yeah, he’s got Mum working customer service. He never was a man of the people. But Mum’s loving it. It keeps her busy and she hears all the gossip first.’
‘And Sammy?’
Cal paused. ‘She works there, too.’
‘I can picture her climbing all over tractors. I bet she’s good.’
‘The most trusted opinion in town when it comes to that sort of thing.’
‘So the town does have a bit of sense.’
‘Now and again.’
Samantha O’Hara stood so close to the window that her breath fogged the glass. She wiped it clean with her sleeve, her eyes never leaving the men she had known longest in her life. She’d expected Ethan to return. Significant events consistently drew him back to town. From where, no one knew. He always arrived in the same ute, never a rental, always looking irritable and tired, but never exhausted. She guessed this meant he was about seven or eight hours away.
Too far to be called upon, but too close to convince her that he truly wanted to forget.
He held a glass tumbler. Mona’s. Even from this distance Sammy could tell that it was empty. She hoped the rumours weren’t true. Four beers and a bourbon did not equal a drinking problem, but it surprised her that he would consume so much on such an occasion.
He was only twenty-nine, a mere month older than Cal and a year older than she, but he’d looked tired and beaten down for a long time now.
He wore the old suit that she knew typically hung in the wardrobe of his old room. It barely fit any more, and she wondered if there was another suit somewhere, hanging in a far away wardrobe – one that did fit him and that never came to Hinterdown. He was broader in the chest and shoulders than he had been, thicker in the arms and legs. More solid than she’d ever seen him. If he was going to keep coming back here for occasions, this suit was going to need to be retired.
Not wanting to be caught staring, Sam stepped away from the window and looked for something to do. She collected empty bottles, used plates and food scraps. Mingled when cornered, nodded politely and excused herself at every opportunity.
She thought of Bree as much as she thought of Ethan the runaway. They’d talked about him, she and Bree, about what could have motivated him to take to the road. Bree hadn’t thought much of Sam’s theory that his parents’ deaths had broken him, because he’d stayed in town a good two years after the accident. But Sam knew better than anyone that he’d never recovered. That night had changed and defined him. To this day, Sam still believed it.
He hadn’t packed anything – no doubt a gesture to tell the town it had nothing to offer him. Just as she’d clearly had nothing to offer, for he’d broken her heart on his way out.
She had been the last door he’d slammed.
Eleven years, she reminded herself. Too long ago to be thinking about now, when there were children who’d lost a mother, and a dear friend who’d lost his wife. They deserved her attention.
For the next hour she kept on the fringes of the crowd, avoiding Ethan, who had returned inside, and trying to be useful. Twice she rearranged the fridge and freezer to accommodate the dozens of meals, desserts, snacks and finger foods the mourners had prepared for the fractured family. She kept her eye on Ethan, wondering when he would find the courage to approach Dean, who was studiously avoiding him. The children had shown a curiosity in him – Rowan most particularly, considering their striking physical similarities. But Dean was not encouraging a reunion by any means.
When the wake started to wind down, there were some guests who lingered, curious about the brothers. Sam’s mother was one of them and would have stayed till nightfall had Sam’s father not put his foot down and stalked out to the car.
After what felt like an age, only she and Cal remained. Anna, Cal’s significant other, was significantly absent as usual. The woman had no staying power. She only came to things long enough for people to remember she was there, and then she went on to God-knows-where to do God-knows-what. But she should be here, Sam thought crossly, for Cal. For Dean, who’d been so welcoming to her ever since she’d moved into town last year.
Today was certainly not the day to do the bare minimum.
The long-awaited reunion occurred at the buffet table. Ethan drew alongside Sam as she was scraping pavlova into a plastic container. She would rather have been doing something a touch more glamorous or poignant, but she had to appreciate life’s sense of humour.
‘Hi, Sammy-doll.’