Page 27 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Omar shrugged. ‘If you can cook, you can bring your home with you wherever you go.’ He drained his water glass. ‘I should clean my room tonight. Very dusty.’ He stood abruptly. ‘I’ll take my coffee upstairs.’
Before either Ivy or Fred could protest, he’d poured himself a mug, nodded curtly and vanished, leaving behind just the clink of silverware against porcelain.
They finished their meal in companiable silence, Ivy enjoying Fred’s reassuring, friendly presence. Then, as Fred reached for her empty plate, his hand brushed against hers and Ivy felt a jolt of electricity shoot through her. In her former life, touch had been currency: her palm against foreheads in blessing, fingers intertwined during the peace, shoulders embraced in comfort. Perhaps she’d lost the skill of touching people? But no. That touch was duty and devotion. This was something entirely different.
She stood up, clutching her plate. How embarrassing. She hoped Fred hadn’t noticed her reaction to being touched.
‘Let me help with the dishes,’ she said quickly, needing something to do with her hands.
Fred’s eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary. ‘You don’t have to.’
‘I want to.’ The words came out softer than she intended, and she saw a flicker of understanding in his expression.
He nodded slowly. ‘All right then.’
As they moved around each other in the small kitchen, Ivy became hyperaware of every near miss, every accidental brush of shoulders. The silence between them no longer felt companionable but charged, full of possibilities she wasn’t ready to name.
When the last dish had been put away, a serious expression clouded Fred’s features as he turned to face her. The air crackled with unspoken words. ‘Ivy ...’.
‘I must get some sleep,’ she interrupted, backing towards the hallway. ‘It’s an early start at the market. I don’t expect Victor will be much help setting up the stall.’
‘Probably not,’ Fred said chuckling.
He showed her out, fussing with her coat. When he closed the door, she heard him call out softly, ‘Good night, Ivy.’
The cold hit her, jolting her upright as she snuggled down into her jacket. She asked if something had nearly happened between them but quickly shook her head. It couldn’t be. It was just Fred, solid, reliable, slightly hapless Fred. Just Fred.She repeated it like a mantra, trying to convince herself, but in her mind, she could still see the expression on his face. When he’d helped her on with her coat, had he been about to kiss her goodnight?
The question unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She’d spent so long afraid that trusting her heart would only lead to disappointment. For thirty years she’d put all her efforts into loving God. There had been no space for earthly desires. Could that change?
Nine
Brambleton’s Christmas market was the official kick-off to the seasonal celebrations. As always, it hummed with chaotic festive energy. The scent of roasted chestnuts drifted across the village green, mingling with the salt-ladened breeze from the sea. A weather-beaten tractor draped in gaudy tinsel and flashing fairy lights puttered around the stalls, towing an ancient hay wagon reimagined as Santa’s sleigh. Ivy barely recognized Sam from Brambleton Hall, hidden beneath a synthetic beard. Squashed into a Santa suit far too small for him, Sam bellowed ‘Ho ho ho!’ over the rumbling engine, as behind him, excited children shrieked with delight.
Arriving at eight, to no sign of Victor, Ivy had spent an enjoyable hour arranging the wreaths according to ribbon colour, listening to jolly Christmas tunes, and bidding good morning to people setting up the other booths before the festivities kicked off.
Near the church stall was the Women’s Institute booth – staffed by Mabel and Margaret – serving mince pies and, despite the early hour, potent mulled cider that left unsuspecting tourists walking sideways. On the green itself a troupe of Morris dancers performed, their jingling bells and clashing sticks creating a joyful percussive backdrop as they dancedthrough puddles, splashing onlookers who didn’t dodge quickly enough. The Salvation Army’s brass band playedcarols that competed with children’s excited shrieks, the shouts of tourists and theconstant jingle of a mechanical Santa which Ivy had yet to track down.
It wasn’t until ten o’clock, when Ivy was desperately trying to serve the long queue that snaked away from the wreath table, that Victor turned up. He didn’t come to help but dawdled over to the WI stall and launched into a pitch for the candlelit carol service, which this year he wanted to hold outside, on the green, despite the long-range forecast of heavy snow. Omar was hovering at the edge of the green, scowling, hands thrust in pockets, but when Ivy caught his eye and gestured, annoyed, towards Victor, he smiled, and Ivy felt the warmth of connection flare in her chest.
‘Excuse me,’ a harassed woman with a toddler in her arms called, ‘how much is the silver-ribboned one?’
‘I’ll be with you in a moment,’ Ivy promised, trying to calculate change for a customer while fending off the flailing arms of the toddler, who was threatening to topple the carefully arranged wreaths.
Suddenly, Omar was beside her. ‘The silver-ribboned wreaths are £28,’ he said smoothly. ‘Do you need a bag to carry it in, to keep it away from little hands?’
The woman smiled gratefully. Something in Omar’s manner – professional, courteous, oddly familiar with the challenges toddlers presented – seemed to calm her. ‘Yes, please.’
As she turned to deal with someone else, Ivy watched Omar handle customer after customer, his gruff manner transformed into something graceful. He knew exactly how to achieve the delicate balance of being helpful without appearing pushy.
During a quiet moment, touching his arm gently, she asked. ‘Where did you learn to do this?’
He stiffened. ‘Around.’
‘You’re very good with people, when you allow yourself to be.’
‘People are easy,’ he muttered. ‘They just want to be listenedto.’ Something in his tone made Ivy’s heart twist with the same maternal protectiveness she showered on her niece, Fiona, who was about Omar’s age.
By four o’clock the queue had thinned and Ivy insisted that Omar took a break and wander around the market. She tracked his progress to the WI stall, where steam rose from the copper pot of mulled cider like dragon’s breath. Helen was standing nearby, and she waved at Omar, beckoning him over. It looked like she had been waiting for him.
