Page 35 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘Why?’
He opened his mouth to speak but a knock at the door broke the moment. Ivy got up to answer.
Helen stood on the threshold. Her outfit – jeans and a jumper – appeared casual, but the skilfully applied make-up screamed effort. She held a small package in her hands. ‘I was about to make some mulled wine and realized I’ve run out of cloves,’ she said, her gaze flicking past Ivy, into the cottage. ‘Thought I’d see if you had any to spare.’
Asking herself why Helen had really come, and so smartly attired, Ivy stepped aside. ‘Of course. Come in. You’ve caught us in the middle of decorating ...’ She trailed off as Helen’s eyes widened slightly, lingering on Omar.
Omar tensed. His hands braced on the back of a chair as if resisting the urge to step away. But today Helen’s manner was different – less confrontational, more assessing.
‘The tree looks lovely,’ Helen said, but her attention remained on Omar rather than the decorations.
Ivy rummaged in a cupboard, finally producing a small jar. She unscrewed the top, and breathed in the earthy, sweet scent before she passed them over.
‘Here you are. I always think they smell of Christmas itself. Don’t you?’
Helen took them with a small nod. As she turned to leave, shemet Omar’s eye. ‘I think I misjudged you, Omar.’
Ivy stiffened. ‘Helen,’ she said sharply, ‘what do you mean by that?’
Helen hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the jar. Ivy could almost see the thoughts racing behind the other woman’s eyes, calculating how to reply. This was Ivy’s opportunity, and mentally she rehearsed how to probe Helen without upsetting Omar. But the thoughts caught in her throat, refusing to form.
Then, with a smile that barely creased the corners of her mouth, Helen said, ‘Perhaps some secrets are best kept hidden, don’t you think?’ and slipped back outside.
Ivy turned to Omar, but his face had closed again, as remote as the mountains he’d described. ‘Here,’ he said, handing her a box of baubles. ‘The tree still needs its stars.’
Ivy took the box, watching him return to untangling lights with methodical precision.Another mystery, she thought.Another piece of the puzzle that is Omar.
By eight o’clock, Ivy’s cottage had taken on a festive dignity. A fresh pine wreath with an enormous crimson velvet bow hung on the front door. Inside, the Christmas tree stood in the bay window, decorated with baubles and the felt angels that had survived Jez’s mauling. She’d draped her grandmother’s hand-crocheted snowflakes along the mantelpiece, where they caught the firelight and threw delicate shadows on the wall. A single carved wooden Nativity scene, bought by her grandfather decades ago from a monastery in France, occupied pride of place on the sideboard. The overall effect was one of respect rather than seasonal excess.
The aroma drifting from her kitchen, however, was anything but traditional. For the second night, Omar had commandeered that space, and now the scent of spices filled the cottage.
‘It’s not too hot, is it?’ Fred asked anxiously, fiddling with hishearing aid as Omar set a steaming platter on the table.
‘It’s not about heat,’ Omar replied. ‘It’s about layers.’
Ivy said grace, then watched in fascination as he served them each a portion.
Saffron-tinted rice gleamed like scattered amber, each grain distinct and aromatic, studded with plump raisins that burst with concentrated sweetness. Tender chunks of fish, braised in a cocktail of spices, fell apart at the touch of a fork. Slivered almonds and pistachios crowned the mound, their buttery crunch contrasting with the silky rice beneath. The first bite released layers of flavour, the warmth of cumin, the floral saffron, the surprise of sweet fruit against savoury grain, all bound together with the rich, unctuous cooking juices absorbed into every kernel.
‘This is amazing,’ Fred said, his voice full of genuine wonder. ‘You must teach us how to make it.’
‘Perhaps you could learn together,’ Omar suggested innocently, and Ivy nearly choked on her wine.
Jezreel chose that moment to launch himself at Fred’s lap, no doubt drawn by the enticing aromas. ‘Down!’ Fred commanded firmly, and to Ivy’s amazement, the puppy froze, four paws on the floor.
‘Why does he listen to you?’ she asked, impressed despite herself.
‘Dogs respond to confidence,’ Fred said, scratching Jez behind the ears.
Ivy imagined those hands taking hold of her own and blushed.
To divert her thoughts, she asked him how his online course was going.
‘Good! I think the idea of debits and credits is finally sinking in. It’s logical really.’
Omar leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. ‘I want a bosom torn by severance, that I may unfold the pain oflove-desire.’
‘Poetry?’ Fred asked, glancing between them.
