Free Doing No Harm by Carla Kelly Page B

My father would never have done that, were he still the minister in Edgar.”
    “Hardly matters,” Douglas told her. “I’ve heard twenty-five years’ worth of quarterdeck sermons by any number of captains. Let me recommend Job chapter 19, verses 25–26.”
    “You must know it by heart.”
    “Aye.” He closed his eyes, remembering far too many burials at sea. “I can recite it from memory.”
    “And I’ll have a verse too. Perhaps I shall sing.”
    So it was that tiny Deoiridh Tavish, her brother watching from an upstairs window, received a lovely burial in a beautiful garden. The minister might not have deigned to attend, but the yard was full of Olive Grant’s pensioners grouped around the flower garden and the little hole.
    His ribs pained him too much to lower the box into the grave, but two of the old men he was beginning to recognize did the honors, carefully tamping down the dirt. Olive Grant nodded to him when it was his turn and he stepped forward, thinking of so many other times.
    “ ‘For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God,’ ” he said, wishing all funerals could be in such a lovely setting.
    He stepped back into the circle of mourners and Olive Grant took her turn. He admired her hair, all orderly now, and the handsome plaid draped over her shoulder. As she began to sing, he felt a tiny bit of callous chip away from his heart, never mind that such a thing was medically impossible.
    He shouldn’t have worried about the tears coursing down his cheeks. A surreptitious look around showed him to be in good company as Olive Grant sang Handel’s lovely alto solo from Messiah .
    “ ‘He shall feed his flock like a shepherd; and He shall gather the lambs with His arm, and carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young.’”
    She sang, her voice pure and true. She clasped her hands at her waist, economical and tidy, and cocked her head slightly to one side, her eyes so kind. Douglas felt his own battered spirits settle down. For the first time in forever, his high-held shoulders, always tense, slowly relaxed. He knew something wonderful was happening to him; what it was, he had no idea. If he had been the creative type, he would have thought an august, cosmic hand had just turned a page in his book of life, leaving behind the pages of war and tumult. But he wasn’t the creative type, Douglas Bowden reminded himself.
    All was calm when she finished, even the gulls by the fishing boats silenced for once, giving smaller spring birds the chance to be heard. When Olive looked in his direction, he patted his heart, which made her tear up, for some reason.
    The old people filed away until just the two of them remained in the garden. Douglas heard the upstairs window close, so he knew Tommy Tavish was back in bed.
    “Thank you for doing this, Olive Grant,” he said. “I’ve been nothing but a bother to you since I came to town.”
    “I daresay Tommy Tavish would call you a blessing,” she said. She knelt and patted the little mound among her spring flowers, flicking away an imaginary weed and smoothing down the soil. “I believe I will plant blue flax here, and perhaps some heather.”
    “I promised Mrs. Tavish a headstone,” he told her. “Who should I see?”
    “Will McCorckle, two doors down,” she said quickly. “I would say that we have been the bother to you, Mr. … Douglas Bowden.”
    “If that is so—and I do not believe it for a minute—I’ll give Tommy two more days and—”
    “And then what?” she finished. “Send him back to starvation? And Mrs. Tavish? What of her?”
    “It’s your village, not mine,” he said quickly, and then was immediately ashamed of so cavalier a comment. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”
    She had turned away, and he didn’t blame her. It isn’t my problem , he thought and felt the tension