Now and in the Hour of Our Death by Patrick Taylor

cultured.”
    â€œToo right.” Tim laughed and picked up his menu. “Now. Let’s see what looks good in this.”
    She practically knew Bridges’ menu by heart. As he read, she looked out of the picture window.
    Not quite the same vista as from Kits Beach. The single span of Burrard Street Bridge blocked the view.
    As usual, False Creek was busy. Water-buses dodged between incoming and outgoing sailboats, their wakes crossing and criss-crossing and sparkling in the evening sun. To her left, the slips of Burrard Civic Marina were crammed with commercial fishing boats, sharp-bowed, businesslike. Behind them, moored pleasure crafts’ masts were an aluminum forest.
    Fiona half-heard Tim discussing the wine with the sommelier.
    A kingfisher, iridescent blue, its flight sudden and jerky, skimmed over the water, scolded the gulls, swooped over the fishing boats, and vanished among the pleasure crafts rocking in their berths to the wakes from the creek. Tim’s boat, Windshadow, was among the yachts.
    Tim loved that boat. The day he’d asked her to come in out of the rain and she’d admired his vessel, he’d said, “I love this little darling.” He’d had the kind of look on his broad face that she imagined Romeo would have had under Juliet’s balcony.
    He was still reading the menu. She would take a bet with herself that he’d order calamari to start with, then red snapper. That’s what he’d had when he’d brought her here for lunch back in January. It had been a different hostess eight months ago who had greeted Tim like an old friend. “Hello, Doctor Andersen. For two?” she’d said.
    Fiona had been surprised that he hadn’t made a fuss about being medically qualified when he’d introduced himself. She’d liked that. A lot.
    She had followed him to a table, and they’d sat on soft-cushioned, cane-backed chairs. The cane, she remembered, had felt lumpy against her rain-dampened sweater.
    â€œ Doctor Tim?” she’d asked.
    â€œâ€™Fraid so, and to get the rest of the questions out of the way, chief of endocrinology at Saint Paul’s Hospital up on Burrard Street, prof. at UBC, fifty-six years old, came to Canada in fifty-five, married a Canadian…”
    â€œYou’re married?” She’d sat back in her chair. Hard. Not another one. She’d started to rise.
    â€œWas. My ex and my two boys live in Ontario.”
    â€œOh.” She’d sat down.
    He’d leaned across the table, smiled, and said, “Now, you know everything about me. Let’s order, and then you can tell me all about Fiona Kavanagh.”
    She couldn’t remember what she’d ordered, but he’d had—
    â€œI’m going to have calamari…”
    â€œAnd red snapper.” She laughed.
    â€œHow did you know that?”
    â€œIt’s what you had the first time we came here.”
    â€œAnd you had oysters and fish and chips.”
    So she had. Trust him to remember. The pair of them were like a couple of sixteen-year-olds getting dewy-eyed when they heard the tune that had been played at their first dance together. For old times’ sake, then. “Oysters Rockefeller and Atlantic cod and french fries, please.” To hell with diets, even though McCusker had been switched to a low-fat cat food.
    â€œFish and chips? You can take the girl out of Ireland, but…”
    The waiter leaned past Fiona. He showed the wine’s label to Tim, who nodded.
    The waiter poured.
    She sipped. It was a Chardonnay, crisp and fruity.
    â€œWould you care to order, sir?”
    Tim ordered.
    â€œWe’re very busy tonight. It may be some time.”
    â€œNo worries.”
    The waiter left.
    â€œCheers.” Tim lifted his glass.
    â€œ Sláinte mHaith. ” This was a damn sight better than parent-teacher interviews. The wine was cold on her tongue.
    Tim pointed to the marina. “Fancy