Page 39 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Ivy frowned as she ran through the possibilities. Omar had been spooked. Helen had fled. Robby remained composed but taut. Something linked them, something that had sent Omar bolting and Helen running. Whatever it was, it wasn’t very cheering, nor very Christmassy.
Robby scanned the room with a soldier’s precision, then walked out, spine straight, shoes striking the floor with clipped finality. The tension dissolved like steam. Conversations resumed, shoulders dropped, and someone even laughed.
Fred insisted on buying Ivy a drink and led her to a table tucked away in the far corner, where they could be ‘more comfortable’. They sat across from each other, neither of them touching their drinks. His tie was still missing, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar – a rare hint of dishevelment that made him look different, less composed. Ivy barely registered the buzz of the surrounding villagers, the crackle of the fire, the clink of glasses. Her mind was still tangled in that breathless moment at the end of the race, when all she’d wanted was for Fred to kiss her.
Had he felt it too?
She risked a glance, but he was looking away, fingers drumming lightly against his glass. The air between them seemed to quiver, like heat rising off stone.
‘You two found a cosy spot,’ came Trish’s familiar voice. She hopped to their table and slid into the chair beside Ivy. ‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked as she stashed her crutches against the wall.
Ivy felt the telltale warmth creeping up her neck. Would Trish notice she could barely look at Fred without blushing? She lifted her glass – a defensive gesture – and took a measured sip. The wine was cool and sharp, distracting her briefly from her own confusion. Had there really been a moment when Fred had been about to kiss her? Or had she just desperately wanted him to?
Before she could dwell on it further, the door opened, and Omar walked in, followed by Helen. He strolled to the bar and asked for a mug ofgreen tea with cardamom. Ivy doubted Rose would stock that!A voice from the other side of the room cut through the murmur of conversation. ‘Still can’t get used to his strange ways,’ said one of the older villagers, eyes darting toward Omar. The words hit Ivy like a splash of icy water.
She straightened, her voice cool but loud enough to carry – her sermon voice, honed by decades at the pulpit. She knew how to startle people, how to ensure they listened, every inflection deliberate. ‘There’s nothing strange about him.’
Helen lifted her chin. ‘Quite right.’ Her voice held a sharp authority that Ivy imagined made the children sit up straighter in the classroom. ‘You should be more welcoming to newcomers.’
The villager mumbled something into his drink, but Helen’s words had been enough to hush further comments. Omar made his way across to Ivy’s table.
Ivy, still bristling at Helen’s interjection – the teacher had only been here three weeks, Omar didn’t need her to stand up for him – couldn’t help herself. ‘He doesn’t need you to defend him,’ she muttered under her breath.
Helen’s gaze snapped toward her. ‘You think he only needs you?’
Ivy met her stare. ‘I think he needs people who actually care abouthim.’
The atmosphere crackled, but before either could say more, Victor elbowed his way over. The young vicar leaned over, concern etched on his face. ‘Omar, everything alright?’
Omar merely shrugged, his expression unreadable.
Ivy’s chest tightened. She didn’t want Victor involved either, with his well-meaning sermons and sustainable ways. None of them understood. Neither did she ... yet. But shewould.Shehad to. Because something was weighing on Omar, something he wasn’t saying. If Omar wouldn’t volunteer an explanation, she must demand one.
‘I think we need a bigger table,’ announced Ivy. She picked up her drink and helped Trish over to a battered wooden table near the crackling fireplace.
‘My round,’ declared Fred. ‘Victor, what can I get you?’
When everyone had a fresh drink, Fred encouraged Omar to talk about Afghanistan. His eyes sparkled with the glow of long-forgotten sunrises, and for a moment, his tales transformed the pub into a landscape of rugged mountains and endless deserts. He explained that although Christmas was not part of Afghanistan’s traditions, winter brought its own quiet rhythms – time for reflection, prayer, and the company of loved ones. In the chill of Kabul’s winter, steaming bowls ofash reshteh, a thick noodle soup, nurtured the soul. As Omar spoke, the stories wrapped around his listeners like a heavy Afghan shawl. Ivy savoured each word.
The heavy oak door swung open once more, admitting a sharp draught that carried the scent of sea spray. And silhouetted in the doorway, stood Robby. Omar’s expression changed, his nostalgic reverie slipping away, making Ivy’s heart clench. His cup shook, a dark tide lapping the rim. His fingers flexed round the handle as if steadying himself. Across the table, Helen’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze cool and unreadable as it settled on the newcomer.
Robby’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, his sharp gaze flicking over Omar and Helen. There was no outright hostility, but something about him put Ivy on edge, a sense of history unspoken, clinging to the air like an unpleasant smell. She told herself she was imagining it, but the way Omar and Helen both reacted made it clear – this man’s presence was not welcome.
‘What’s wrong, Omar?’ hissed Trish.
Before anyone could press Omar further, Robby strode across the room. The sound of his shoes clicking on the wooden floor was unsettling amid the gentle background of laughter. He approached the table with an air of grim authority, his aftershave, exotic and expensive, overpowering and intrusive. As Robby’s eyes locked onto Omar, the air around the group seemed to thicken and Ivy felt a shiver trace her spine.
In a loud voice, the man barked, ‘I’ve been looking for you. Do you lot know who you’re sheltering?’
Omar’s jaw tightened and resignation dogged his eyes. Instinctively, Ivy reached for his hand. ‘Omar, please ... tell us what’s going on,’ she pleaded, her voice cracking. But his eyes remained fixed on Robby, whose presence rendered him mute. The pub fell into an uneasy silence. Ivy spotted Mabel and Margaret, schooners of sherry in their hands, drinking in the scene.This will soon be all around Brambleton, she thought.
Robby’s voice was steely. ‘There’s a solution to this problem, and Omar knows what it is. Go home.’
Without warning, Omar jerked upright. His chair screeched against the floor as he pushed away, his eyes wide. Ivy lunged forward in a desperate attempt to reach him, but he was already halfway out of the door. The stranger followed in hot pursuit, his steps echoing in the silent space.
Ivy took a calming breath.Pretending everything was fine wouldn’t solve this, not for him, any more than that had been a solution for her. If she wanted answers, she’d have to ask for them. Carefully. Thoughtfully. Like she used to. She’d spent too long waiting, doubting, fearing the wrong step. That must end tonight.
Thirteen
