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

her hair. “God,” she said, “I must look like a drowned rat.”
    â€œYou look pretty good to me,” he said, taking back the damp towel.
    She noticed his look of appraisal, and found that she didn’t mind. Not one bit.
    â€œThank you … Tim.”
    â€œAw, no need for thanks when a bloke tells the truth.”
    That made her smile.
    She heard the rain hammering on the deck above her head.
    â€œTell you what,” he said, “I was going to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?”
    Why not? She nodded. “Great.”
    â€œListen,” he said, turning from where he was filling a kettle, “it’s stopped raining.”
    All she could hear was the soft creaking of the boat tugging against her mooring lines. “I really should be running along. Thanks for rescuing me.”
    His face fell. “No tea?”
    â€œWell…”
    He glanced at his watch. “I’ve a better idea, Fiona.” He hesitated. “It’s all right if I call you Fiona, Miss Kavanagh?”
    That was Old World courtesy, and she appreciated it. “Of course.”
    â€œWhy don’t you let me buy you lunch at Bridges? Unless you’ve something better to do?”
    She hesitated. “You’re not a writer, by any chance?”
    â€œMe? Nah? You should see my scrawl. Anyway, I didn’t ask you to a reading. I invited you to lunch.” He smiled, and the look on his face was that of a small boy who had brought a stray puppy home and was asking his mother, “Can I keep him, Mum? Can I?” That look tipped the scales.
    â€œNo,” she said.
    His face fell.
    â€œNo. I mean I don’t have anything better to do.”
    â€œGood on you, mate. Let’s go.”
    Something better? She knew, now, that meeting Tim had been the best thing that had happened to her in years. She blessed the downpour that had brought them together. There’d be no rain today. Outside the window, there was not as much as a wisp of cloud to be seen in the sky.
    She closed the pane, muffling the cries of the Little Leaguers.
    Someone knocked on her door. Fiona went and opened it, expecting to greet the Greek family.
    Becky Johnston, fiftyish, bespectacled, tall, her grey hair pulled back in a bun, stood in the hall. She carried herself with the formal rigidity of a sergeant major.
    â€œMorning, Becky.”
    â€œToiling in your vineyard, I see.” Becky’s parents came from the south of England and had brought their seventeen-year-old daughter with them when they’d immigrated to Vancouver. She’d never lost her plummy Oxbridge accent.
    â€œParent-teacher in a few minutes. The Papodopolouses.”
    â€œDimitris been acting the maggot again?”
    Fiona nodded. “The in-house counselor thinks he’s hyperactive.”
    Becky snorted. “Rubbish. Psychological mumbo jumbo. He’s just a busy little ten-year-old, that’s all.”
    â€œBusy? If we could harness his energy, we could use him to power half the streetlights in Kits.”
    â€œYou have my deep abiding sympathy.” Becky had a grin on her face. “I’ll leave you to it. I came in to work on next week’s teaching plan.” Becky looked out through the window. “It really is a lovely day, and I’ll be finished soon. Would you care to go for coffee when you’ve finished?”
    â€œPlease.” Past Becky’s shoulder Fiona could see the Papodopolous family walking along the corridor. “I’m going to need one. Dimitris’s parents haven’t a word of English, and I’m never sure if the little devil translates exactly what I’m saying.”
    â€œI’ll skedaddle. Do come along to the common room when you’ve finished.”
    â€œI will.”
    Becky left, and Fiona stood aside to let the parents of a black-haired, damson-eyed boy precede her into the office. “Good morning,” she said.
    She