He met her halfway . . . gave her a fast scrutiny . . . then fished out a neatly folded pristine handkerchief and traded her the white square for the compact volume.
Despite his sorrow, he’d noticed her tattered emotions.
Which only made her more weepy.
Back at the railing, he read the twenty-third psalm in a quiet, choked voice as the urn floated away from the boat, rocking gently in the waves.
After he finished, he slid the book back inside his jacket but remained at the railing, back ramrod straight, watching the urn.
When it at last sank beneath the waves, he gripped the railing and bowed his head. A few moments later, his shoulders began to shake.
Sweet mercy.
He was weeping.
As her own eyes filled again, Marci pressed the handkerchief against her lips to smother the sob threatening to erupt.
Of course she’d feel compassion for anyone mourning a loss—but somehow it went deeper than that with Ben, despite their short acquaintance.
Maybe because she’d known Ned and grieved his death too.
Maybe because Ben had touched her heart by inviting her to share in this final, personal farewell.
Maybe because it had been a long while since she’d felt such an instant connection to another person.
Maybe because she couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be to say goodbye to the last person in the world who mattered to you.
Whatever the reason, his almost palpable sorrow infiltrated her soul—and she didn’t want him to feel alone.
Following her instincts, she crossed the deck, stood behind him, and rested her hand against his back.
He froze—and she held her breath. Then, ever so slightly, he leaned back into her touch.
The air whooshed out of her lungs.
He hadn’t rejected her overture.
Two long, emotion-laden minutes later, after swiping the arm of his suitcoat across his eyes, he turned.
The pain of loss was carved into his features, grooves bracketing his mouth, lashes spiky with moisture.
Once again, the waterworks erupted, and she dabbed at her tears with his handkerchief.
“Hey.” He took her hand, his voice husky as he wove his fingers through hers. “As Skip used to say when I was down, dry your tears, lift your face to the sun, and trust that God will give you a better tomorrow.”
“That’s a b-beautiful thought.” The last word came out in a hiccup. “But I should be the one c-comforting you.”
“You’ve already done that. It’s amazing how one caring touch can make a person feel less alone. Thank you for that—and for being Skip’s friend.”
“He was an easy man to like.”
“Yes, he was.” Giving her fingers a squeeze, he spoke to the captain. “We’re ready to go back.”
The man disappeared inside, and a few seconds later the engine revved up.
As the deck began to vibrate and the boat swung around in a slow arc, Marci lost her footing and groped for the railing.
Ben’s grip on her fingers tightened, and he motioned to a small bench tucked beside the wheelhouse. “Why don’t we sit?”
“I vote for that—although you don’t appear to be in the least bothered by the motion.”
“I spent hours on this deck in all kinds of weather. I got my sea legs long ago. But there is a bit of a chop now. I think a storm may be brewing.” As he spoke, the sun disappeared behind a dark cloud and the wind picked up.
He held tight to her hand as she lurched across the deck, then sat beside her on the bench.
It was a tight fit—but cozy.
Very cozy.
Best of all, he didn’t let go of her fingers during the entire ride back to the wharf.
Only after the boat nudged into the dock and the captain emerged did Ben relinquish his grip and stand to thank the man again.
“I was glad to do it, Doctor. I could tell your grandfather loved crabbing as much as I did and hated to give it up. He sold me a gem of a boat, and being part of his final trip to sea would have been my privilege even if that hadn’t been part of our agreement.”
Once they were on the dock, the captain lifted his hand in farewell, disappeared into the wheelhouse, and aimed the Suzy Q back toward the sea.
With one last look at the boat, Ben focused on her. “I guess that wraps up today. Thank you for coming along. It helped.”
“Thank you for inviting me. It was an honor to be there.”
“Are you going to your office now?”
“Yes.” Unless he made a better offer.
Not happening, Marci. The man just buried his grandfather. He doesn’t have socializing on his mind—and you’re not interested anyway. Remember—caution is your operative word around men.
“Do you need anything more from me for your article?”
For a split second, she hesitated. If she said yes, she might be able to prolong this interlude.
But that would be a lie—and given the persistent buzz in her nerve endings, it was far safer to say goodbye and be on her way.
“I don’t think so. You gave me plenty. But if you don’t mind sharing your cell number, I’d appreciate having it on hand in case any follow-up questions arise.”
“Sure.”
She retrieved a pen and a small notebook, jotting down the numbers as he dictated them. “Thanks. Watch for the story on Tuesday.”
“I will.”
She extracted his soggy handkerchief from the pocket of her coat. “I’ll return this after I restore it to its original condition.”
“Don’t bother. I have plenty.” A raindrop hit the tip of his nose, and he inspected the sky. “We better go our separate ways or Mother Nature will be laundering that handkerchief—and us too.”
A raindrop bounced off her cheek, confirming his assessment.
She forced herself to back off a few steps. “Well . . . maybe I’ll see you around.”
“I wouldn’t rule out that possibility. Hope Harbor isn’t very big.”
In other words, he wasn’t planning to seek her out. If they met again, it would be by chance.
Her spirits nosedived—a reaction that was just plain dumb.
She didn’t want him to have any interest in her. Romance would
