Jim has always been a loner. When he finds a home on an island off the wild West Coast of Tasmania, he decides his life is as perfect as it’s ever going to be. He has his seabirds, the surf, and perfect peace.
His life changes when an unconscious woman washes up on his beach. Who is she? Where does she come from?
Or, more importantly, when?
“Out of Time” is Book 2 of “The Gaiety” Trilogy.
Read on for a preview…
The last rays of the dying sun caught the foam of the breakers rolling in, row after row after row. Jim counted five rows, six at times. This was the Great Southern Ocean. Those waves had been building up from South America, two-thirds of the way around the planet.
He inhaled salt air, the aroma of seaweed, and the scent of coarse vegetation growing between the rocks of the cliff behind him.
The freshest air in the world.
Peace, he thought. Total, absolute, complete peace.
He smiled.
Fifty metres to the south, high on the plateau of the island he called home, the red-painted roof of a house gleamed brassily. Smoke from one of its chimneys spiralled into the darkening sky.
After everything he’d been through in recent years, having a home he could call his own was a miracle.
Work I love. No traffic, no crowds. Zero stress. Just the sound of the wind and the waves and the seabirds’ calling.
Life is as perfect as it could be.
The small, automatic lighthouse on the most seaward of the islands flickered on. Low tide rarely coincided with the sunset. Soon the sea would separate his island from the Tasmanian mainland. It would be inaccessible for the next ten hours or more.
A jog up to the end of the beach and back, before climbing the steps cut into his island’s cliffs, would stretch his legs. The cove wasn’t large, and he had time.
Dodging protruding rocks and the piles of kelp left by last night’s storm, he soon got into his stride.
What sort of weed was that?
He thought he knew all the local varieties of seaweed: the great, thick bull kelp like dark brown leather; the delicate amber fronds, more like the foliage of a tree; the one like broken strands of beads trailing in the sand; and the flimsy, lettuce-like leaves of pale green and pink.
This was white and gold, shifting and stirring a little in the incoming tide.
Piled up on the sand, it looked almost like a body.
Are there mermaids in this part of the world?
He chuckled to himself. If he’d started seeing things, perhaps the isolation wasn’t as good for him as he thought. It would be rubbish, thrown overboard by a passing ship, or a net, lost from a fishing boat.
But as he drew closer, the white pile looked more and more like a woman in a long white dress, her wet hair a deep grey-gold.
He broke into a run, leaping piles of seaweed, almost missing his footing on a slime-covered rock.
“Oh, my God! Oh, Lord…”
Her skin was as pale as her long, white, lacy dress. Long hair fanned out on the wet sand like the seaweed he’d mistaken her for.
Fuuuuck!!!
Is she dead?
What do I do? Oh Lord, what do I do?
Kneeling on the sand beside her, his hand trembled as he lifted one of hers.
Corpses are supposed to be stiff, aren’t they? When does rigor mortis set in?
Her hand relaxed into his. The fingers contracted a little. Was she trying to hold on to him?
Or was it a reflex?
Her pulse, find her pulse!
It was there, a faint flutter.
She was alive!
What next, what next…
Wavelets lapped around her feet.
Think Jim! Think!
He’d parked his ancient Land Cruiser on the headland opposite his island. The drive to Zeehan along the rough bush track would take at least an hour. The hospital in Queenstown was another hour after that. Rain for the last three days would have washed out the ford again. He could get through it when the creek dropped, but that could be days.
He’d have to take her to the island.
Jim was reasonably fit, and there wasn’t much of her. He understood the basic principles of a firefighter’s carry from a course many, many years before. Lifting a plastic dummy while an instructor watched hadn’t prepared him for the reality.
Calm down, Jim.
Raise her knees first.
Sodden layers of skirts clung to each other, but he rearranged them as best he could. Pulling her into a sitting position, he stood, bent his knees, and put his shoulder into her midriff.
Don’t think, Jim, just do it.
He positioned one arm between her knees. Grasping her wrist and bracing himself, he stood up.
After taking a few deep breaths, he set off towards the island. By the time he reached the foot of the steps, he was knee deep in water.
His ancient goods elevator was designed to lift a hundred kilos or more, and she didn’t feel as though she weighed anything like that. The lift was little more than a wooden platform with a fence around it to stop things falling off.
Jim lay the unconscious woman in the open box, hoping she wouldn’t wake for a few more minutes. He ran up the steps two at a time. A small shed at the top of the cliff sheltered the diesel engine installed by an enterprising former resident.
He jerked on its starter cord, muttering a quick prayer. The engine stuttered and coughed into life. Centimetre by centimetre, its thick cable moved.
Back down the steps once more, he held the box steady as it inched up the cliff.
At last, he had a few minutes to think.
The medical knowledge he’d picked up in the years he’d taken care of various members of his family kicked in. Getting her out of her wet clothes would be his priority. Then he’d wrap her in Gran’s wool blankets. He knew he’d brought them for a reason. His thick wool socks, an old tee shirt, and track pants would be far too big for her, but would keep her warm.
He’d fill plastic milk containers with hot water and wrap them in towels.
Was that right?
He’d look it up on the net to make sure, but it seemed logical.
The elevator reached the top of the cliff, and he picked her up in his arms. Not far to the house now…