Page 88 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
“A Prayer”
Since that I may not have
Love on this side the grave,
Let me imagine Love . . .
Yet grant me this, to find
The sweetness in my mind
Which I must still forego;
Great God which art above,
Grant me to image Love, -
The bliss without the woe.
She could barely breathe past the sudden rush of emotion.
Fred had given herthis, a book of Victorian love poetry, tender and intimate. The kind of gift that said far more than he dared say aloud. He had listened to her, or maybe Omar had explained – poetry, not pottery.
She gulped, looking up at Omar, who was watching her carefully, those dark eyes seeming almost to look inside her.
‘Why did he send this with you?’ she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.
Omar sighed. ‘He doesn’t know you have it. He told me to give it to you on Christmas morning.’
A chill ran through her, despite the warmth of the cottage. ‘On Christmas Day? But he’s coming for lunch. Why not give it to me himself?’
Omar exhaled sharply, like he’d been bracing himself for this moment. ‘Because he won’t be here.’
Ivy’s throat constricted. ‘Why not? What do you mean?’
‘He’s leaving.’ Omar met her eyes, his voice gentle but firm. ‘Now that he’s solved my problem, he says he must go. He said that, as you are taking me shopping this morning, he couldn’t leave the Nativity dress rehearsal just to Victor.’ A tiny smile crossed Omar’s face, replaced by a serious expression. ‘But afterwards ... he’s going.’
She gasped. ‘Leaving Brambleton?’
Omar gave a slow, reluctant nod. ‘He didn’t want to tell you. It’s too painful for him to live next door to you. He thinks you don’t love him. That you never could.’
A thousand thoughts crashed through her mind, and they were all about Fred. The mistletoe. The kiss. Her fear. Hersilence. She had pushed him away, walled herself off because she didn’t know how to let love in, not in the way Fred needed. She’d come close, the night Fred had spirited Omar away, then hidden her love, convinced he didn’t feel the same way. And now Fred was going because he thought Ivy didn’t care.
But she did care.God help her, she did.
Tears blurred her vision.
Omar’s voice softened. ‘You love him too, don’t you?’
She gripped the book tightly, fingers pressing into the leather.
Yes. She loved Fred. It wasn’t the sort of love she had known for over thirty years – devotion to her faith, to those she cared for – but something new, terrifying, wonderful. A love she had spent so longdenying herselfbecause she’d thought it was too late. ‘What would Rumi say about this?’
‘I thought you’d ask me that,’ he said smiling. ‘He would tell you not to run away from the pain. Face it. The cure for the pain is in the pain.’
Her gaze snapped to the clock. ‘When did the rehearsal start?’
‘Thirty minutes ago.’
