Page 26 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
The atmosphere changed.It was subtle, but Ivy noticed. Tables turned inwards, backs slightly hunched, conversations sharpened. The worst offenders, naturally, were Mabel and Margaret, who watched with the tight-lipped disapproval ofpeople who claimed they werejust concerned,but weren’t really. Heat flared in Ivy’s chest. Omar had given nothing but kindness to the village, and yetthiswas the response.
Mabel cleared her throat loudly. ‘So, the Christmas market is tomorrow. Always a grand affair. Muchlovedby the village.’
Omar, oblivious to the pointed tone, brightened. ‘Ah! Markets, yes. In my home, the markets are like rivers – always flowing, full of life. The air is perfumed with spices – cinnamon, cardamom – women selling fabrics so bright they shine even in the shade. You hear the traders calling out, voices strong, bartering. The smoke from cooking rises into the sky, kebabs sizzling, men rolling fresh naan, slapping it onto the walls of the ovens. And the fruit! Pomegranates bursting, juice staining fingers—’
‘Oh,’ Mabel cut in. ‘Well, we mostly sell jams and homemade decorations, hand-tied ribbons, those wreaths we made.’
Before Ivy could defend Omar, there was a sloshing noise.
Jez.
He had beendrinkingfor anunholylength of time. His entire body swayed slightly with the effort, his chubby little tummy looking distended between his legs. He paused, ears twitching.
Quick as a flash, Omar scooped up the dog and made a beeline for the door.
‘Where . . . ?’ Ivy called.
‘I think we’ve just had another near miss,’ said Trish, ‘maybe it would be best if Jez stayed at home now business is picking up?’
Ivy suspected that Trish had had as much fun from Jez’s antics as she could tolerate. ‘I’ll leave him with Fred. He can keep an eye on him.’
A minute later Omar returned, and deposited Jez at her feet.
‘Water in,’ he said simply. ‘Water out.’
She blinked. Then snorted. Then howled with laughter.
Mabel looked unimpressed.
Ivy caught Omar’s gentle smile and realized it was the first time she’d laughed like that in months. Whatever the villagers might think, she’d made the right choice in letting him stay that cold night four weeks ago.
Later that evening, Ivy was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, watching Fred’s houseguest manoeuvre around the kitchen with surprising ease. Anyone meeting him for the first time would assume Omar had been living with Fred for months not weeks. She missed sharing lunch with him, discussing poetry; although she still cooked herself a dal, it wasn’t the same eating alone. But she was happier with him living in a proper house and delighted with the way the three of them were forming their own little unit. Ivy was beginning to realize how important friendship was in the vacuum of post-retirement life.
‘It smells divine,’ she said, inhaling deeply as unfamiliar spices filled the air – earthy cardamom and something slightly musky that made her think of sun-baked bazaars and distant spice routes. Omar had insisted on cooking a meal for both of his hosts, claiming it was the least he could do after their generosity. Something sizzled softly in the pan.
‘What did you call it again?’
The wooden spoon scraped against the bottom of the pot as Omar stirred without turning from the hob. ‘I don’t care what it’s called, what matters is that it’s my grandmother’s recipe.’ His voice had softened since that first evening in the shed, though that underlying curtness remained.
Fred appeared beside her. He pressed a glass of red wine into her hand, the cool stem contrasting with the warmth of his fingers as they lingered against hers a moment too long. She felt the heat rising to her cheeks, whether from the wine in her hand, or his touch, she couldn’t say.
‘Pinot Noir. I think you mentioned that’s your favourite?’ hesaid, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Ivy smiled. ‘You remembered!’
‘Of course I remembered.’ Fred furrowed his brow. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’
Ivy felt her cheeks glow. The stove must be giving off more heat than she thought. Omar cleared his throat. ‘The table needs setting,’ he announced, stirring vigorously. ‘I would do it, but this pot needs me.’
Fred volunteered instantly. ‘Let me help,’ suggested Ivy.
‘No, you’re a guest, and a working woman,’ said Fred. ‘Sit and enjoy your wine.’
Ivy sipped, watching Fred retrieve plates from the cupboard. His cottage was always so tidy and warm, unlike her cluttered chilly one. The wooden beams above the stone floor, the gentle ticking of the carriage clock on the side table all felt so solid, dependable. Like Fred himself. She smiled again. They had always had time for each other, she and Fred. She had started visiting him as one of her parishioners twenty years ago, after his wife died, but she had only really got to know him in the last two years, since they had become neighbours, and especially when they joined forces in last year’s planning battle. Prioritizing parish work, she had lacked time for deep friendships.
Dinner was a sensory revelation. The meat melted on her tongue, rich and comforting. The crusty bread Fred had baked crackled satisfyingly between her teeth. Even the simple salad tasted extraordinary, dressed with something Omar had produced from his mysteriously well-stocked duffle bag.
‘This is remarkable,’ she said, dabbing her lips with a napkin. ‘Where did you learn to cook like this?’
