Page 40 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Later that evening,Ivy listened to the wind hurling itself against her cottage windows, but inside the stone walls, it remained warm. On the hearth rug, Jez, little more than a tumble of fur with paws still too large for his body, had collapsed, each tiny snore punctuating the silence like the ticking of a clock. Ivy stirred her tea, watching the amber liquid swirl.
Fred, who had insisted on escorting her home, was lounging on the sofa, nursing a tumbler of whisky. Together they had found a scowling Omar huddled on Fred’s doorstep, and Ivy had insisted the men come back to her cottage – she wanted control of this debrief.
In the chair opposite her, Omar sat, shoulders tight, eyes darting occasionally to the door as if expecting someone to burst through. The encounter with Robby at the pub – that flash of recognition, the hasty exit – had left Omar visibly shaken.
‘Would you like some more tea?’ Ivy asked, falling back on decades of pastoral training. Start with reassurance. Create safety.
Omar nodded, though his cup was still half full.
She poured anyway, buying time. As a vicar, she’d learned that silence often drew out the truth better than questions. But this felt different. This felt urgent.
Her eyes darted to Fred, who seemed to radiate encouragement. Ivy sighed and took a sip of tea absently. Was spending so much time with Fred on their ‘Omar Project’making her fonder of him? Her mind drifted back to the village fete a couple of years ago, when she had confided her worry about the raffle tickets not selling. Fred, mishearing, had launched into a loud speech about road safety in front of her bewildered church group. His actions mortified her at the time, but now she saw them as a misguided attempt to defend and support her.
Eventually Ivy cracked, setting down the teapot, the lid rattled softly, a small tremor that slipped into her words. ‘Is that man dangerous?’
Omar shook his head, his fingers drumming against his cup. ‘Not to either of you, but to me, yes.’
‘Because he wants you to go back to Kabul?’ asked Fred. ‘Why does he want you to go, and why are you so scared of going?’
Omar met Ivy’s eyes. Something raw and afraid in those dark eyes made her heart constrict. She’d counselled parishioners through grief, addiction, abuse, but his fear was something else entirely.
‘I think he’s coming under pressure,’ Omar said finally. ‘He thinks I’m being difficult. He’s been told to make me go back.’
Ivy reached across, covering one of his hands with hers. This wasn’t the professional distance she’d maintained with troubled parishioners. This was maternal, instinctive.
His hand was firm, the skin smooth. The warmth of it startled her.
‘Only you should decide if you stay or go,’ she said firmly. She surprised herself with the fierceness of her tone, this protective surge welling up inside her. When had this young man become so important to her? In her shed, he had been downright nasty, forcing Ivy to summon her reserves of Christian charity, but over the last five weeks, that had changed.
‘My spare room is your home for as long as you need it,’ added Fred.
Omar’s hand turned beneath hers, clutching briefly before withdrawing.
‘You don’t understand,’ he whispered.
‘Then help us to understand,’ she said, sliding the biscuit tin toward him like she used to do for troubled teens at the vicarage. ‘We can’t help if we don’t know what we’re facing.’
She decided to share her own experiences, hoping it would allow him to share his. Ivy wrapped her hands around her mug, steam curling against her face. ‘I never expected to feel so lost,’ she admitted. ‘After leaving the Church, I thought I’d be free, but I felt like they ejected me. Like I had become irrelevant.’
Fred hunched forward slightly, his brow furrowed. He didn’t speak, but his attentiveness was reassuring. Across from her, Omar remained guarded, staring into his mug. After a long silence, he murmured, ‘I understand how you feel. But what is it you say ... we’re just the little folk.’
Something in his voice softened the atmosphere. ‘Early retirement shows you how insignificant you are.’ Ivy said with a wry chuckle. ‘It’s a fancy way of saying “purposeless” – though I have become exceptionally skilled at rearranging my spice rack.’
‘And you don’t own many spices anyway!’ Omar’s laugh, a real, unforced one, filled the room. It was the first time she had heard him laugh like that. She took the small win, as she was pretty sure she wouldn’t break through his defences tonight.
Ivy rose, heading to the kitchen. ‘I’ll make more tea.’
Omar stood, stretching. ‘Not for me. I should go.’
Fred appeared to seize those words. ‘Yes, it’s been a long day. I don’t want to rush my drink – shame to hurry a good malt whisky. If you’re staying up, Ivy, I’ll keep you company until you head to bed.’
Then Jez launched himself at Omar’s boots, growling in play. Omar sighed, sinking back into the chair.
Fred took a swallow of his drink before turning to Ivy, ‘I waswondering. Would you like to go out for a meal, maybe to the pub sometime?’
That would be expensive, thought Ivy. Omar couldn’t afford it and nor could she, and she didn’t want Fred to offer to pick up the tab for all three of them. ‘It’s a lovely idea, Fred, but that’s quite an extravagance at this time of year.’ Her eyes drifted towards Omar, hoping Fred would understand her meaning.
‘I didn’t mean ... I was suggesting ...’ He seemed to be fumbling for the words, and Ivy stepped in to help. ‘Maybe in the New Year, when Omar has found a proper job?’ she suggested.
