Read Online Now and in the Hour of Our Death by Patrick Taylor - Free Book Online Page A

they had met.
    The weather then, she thought, looking at dust motes shimmering in a visiting sunbeam, hadn’t been as pleasant as today’s, and the last thing she had been expecting was to meet a new man, especially one like Tim Andersen.
    She rose, walked to the window, and watched as a little lad took an almighty swing at the ball—and missed, lost his balance, and sat down heavily right in the middle of home plate.
    â€œGo on,” she said, knowing that he couldn’t hear her, “pick yourself up and have another go.”
    It was advice she could have used herself not so very long ago.
    She’d started seeing a writer last July. He was younger than she was, a bit bohemian with his beard and ponytail and complete disregard for the establishment. God, but he’d made her laugh. Some of his friends were weird by her standards, yet there was always an excitement in their company. He’d made her feel ten years younger, until, quite by chance, she had discovered that he was married. That had come to light in November. She’d told him to go to hell, never seen him again, decided to give men a rest for a while and to be satisfied with her own company and that of her immediate circle of friends.
    Three months later, her anger and disappointment, her sense of betrayal, had faded sufficiently, and she could smile at herself for being so easily taken in.
    One Saturday, feeling housebound, she’d decided to go to the Art Gallery. She’d walked from Kits to Granville Island, intending to take the water-bus across False Creek and walk down Burrard Street to West Georgia.
    It had been a day when the January clouds had seemed to be welded to the tops of the North Shore Mountains. The sky had opened.
    Despite the warmth of the morning sun today, just thinking of how suddenly soaked she had become made her shiver.
    The nearest shelter had been Granville Market, and she was turning to scurry over there when, from nowhere, a voice said, “Excuse me. Excuse me, miss.”
    She’d turned and seen a tall man in foul-weather gear standing in the cockpit of a small moored yacht.
    â€œMe?”
    â€œYes. Come aboard out of the rain.” His Australian accent was noticeable.
    She hesitated.
    â€œI don’t bite, and you’re getting soaked.”
    She stepped to the side of the dock.
    â€œTake my hand.”
    He helped her aboard.
    â€œDown there.” He guided her to a hatch.
    She found herself in a small cabin. She sniffed. There was a faint smell of diesel fuel. The thrumming of rain on fibreglass drowned his next words.
    â€œPardon me?”
    â€œI said, ‘Park yourself on one of the seats. By the table.’”
    â€œThank you, Mr.?”
    â€œAndersen. Tim Andersen.” He threw back the hood of his oilskin jacket.
    She saw the beginnings of pouches beneath grey eyes. Sandy eyebrows with uncut longer hairs. Wide forehead under a receding hairline. Bent nose—a result, she would later learn, of the Aussie-rules football he used to play in Melbourne. He wasn’t going to beat Sean Connery for the title of World’s Sexiest Looking, but looks weren’t everything.
    â€œFiona Kavanagh.”
    â€œWelcome aboard. You from Ireland?”
    â€œYears ago. I live here now.” She knew her accent had given him the clue.
    â€œI’m from Oz. Canada’s a country of immigrants. Do you like it here?”
    â€œI love it on the west coast.”
    â€œMe, too. Except when it rains like this. West coast? More like the bleeding wet coast.”
    She’d heard that one before but still laughed, and, as her head shook, she felt her hair wet against her face. She must look a sight. “You wouldn’t have a towel on board, Mr. Andersen?”
    â€œâ€™Course. I’ll get you one.” He moved to a small doorway, entered, and returned carrying a towel. “And it’s Tim to my friends.”
    She accepted the towel and dried