Page 49 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘This isn’t your battle,’ said Omar. ‘You think you understand what I’m facing, but you don’t. I must protect my sister and her family. Robby must never know why I can’t go back.’ His words were like a wall and Ivy hit it full force. Her heart squeezed painfully, and her voice faltered. ‘I just want to help.’ But as soon as the words left her lips, she wondered if she truly did. Was she fighting for Omar’s freedom or for her own comfort? The fear of losing him, of seeing him disappear from her life, twisted inside her like a vine.
Omar scoffed, as if he could read her thoughts. ‘Help me? Or help yourself?’ His words stung more than she expected.
Fred looked between them, his gaze filled with disappointment, like a teacher trying to mediate between two unruly students. He spoke quietly, but with a weight Ivy couldn’t ignore. ‘I think you have to back off, Ivy.’
Ivy blinked away tears. ‘So, we just let Omar run? That’s your solution? That has to be the wrong choice.’ She knew she sounded petulant, but the words spilled out before she could stop them.
Omar rose, his chair scraping against the floor. ‘The only wrong choice would be staying and watching you get caught in the crossfire.’ He turned away, but not before Ivy caught the glimmer of moisture in his eyes. ‘Some battles can’t be won. Some people are too powerful. I learned that long before I came here.’
For a long, heavy moment, the room held its breath. Omar’s face contorted with a mixture of weariness and anger. ‘I’m tired, Ivy,’ he said. ‘If I keep quiet, both my sister and I live. We may not live the lives we want to, the lives we dreamed of, but at least we stay alive.’
‘Omar, this is your decision,’ said Fred. ‘We’re not going to force you into a battle you don’t want to fight. Ivy, you of all people understand that sometimes the best help is knowing when to step back.’ Ivy gave one more push. ‘Please. Let us try ...’
Omar’s eyes glistened momentarily with something akin to regret before hardening once more. ‘You think I haven’t tried?’ he murmured, his voice a mix of defeat and defiance. ‘I’ve been to your police, but Robby isn’t threatening me.’ He stood up and marched off, running up the stairs, his feet thumping against the polished floorboards, each thundering step seeming to echo his rejection and Ivy’s frustration.
She got up to follow. Fred put out a restraining hand. ‘Let him go.’
‘Fred, please,’ Ivy implored. ‘Don’t you see?’ she groaned. ‘By not fighting, by not trying to clear his name, he is letting the very corruption that ensnared him go unchallenged.’
Fred put down his mug, his voice softening for just a moment before regaining its firm edge. ‘Ivy, I’m trying to keep you safe. I know it hurts to see him withdraw, but sometimes the fight isn’t ours to pick. Just accept that this is his battle, and if he doesn’t want to fight, you can’t force him.’
Ivy felt isolated. The decorations, once symbols of joy, now felt like a stage set for an impossibly hopeful celebration. She stared at the playful ornaments, her mind reeling with the painful realization that sometimes, even the most lovingly adorned spaces couldn’t mask the reality of people’s lives. Her thoughts churned: if Fred wouldn’t help, who might? Who else would care as much as she did about the plight of strangers thousands of miles away? The answer came to her in a flash.
Sixteen
By the time she unlatched the gate to her former home, Ivy was having second thoughts. Victor was a good man, but he wasn’t much of a match for the Taliban. A bit liketrying to fly a paper kite in a storm. She turned on her heel and was crunching back across the gravel when she caught the soft snick of the door opening behind her. ‘Ivy, wait,’ Victor called out. ‘I’m sorry. The doorbell isn’t working, but I do try to keep an eye out for visitors.’
‘Have you checked the battery?’ she asked.
His face split into a grin, ‘Ah! Good idea.’Bless him, she thought, he had all the practicality of a chocolate frying pan. He rumbled on, insisting his door was always open anyway, just knock. Everyone was welcome, any time. ‘Please come in,’ he said, his tone calm and inviting.
She retraced her steps. Each time her foot fell, she tried to imagine Omar making that journey over the mountains. There was no harm in consulting Victor. She had Omar’s permission to share the story of his journey, just not his role with the army, nor anything about his sister.
The vicar led the way to the small study, so familiar, yet so different. Stacks of worn books still lined the shelves, but the room smelled strongly of incense and a gentle murmur of conversation drifted from a radio playing softly in the background. Victor sat behind a desk so cluttered that Ivy itched to stack the papers into neat piles, as they had always been in herday. But before that she wanted to wipe it clean – she was certain a swipe of her finger across the leather top would come away thick with dust. To her, a tidy, clean desk signified an organized life. After fivemonths around Victor, she should have expected this chaos.
‘How can I help?’ he said, offering a gentle smile and bright eyes after she rejected the suggestion of tea. She sensed the tightness in her chest ease and sank into a chair opposite him.
As she spoke, Victor loomed above her, watching with a focused stillness that made Ivy feel like an actor under a theatre spotlight. She noticed the way his long fingers were steepled beneath his chin, as if in prayer, while he listened to Omar’s story unfold. Though he was young, he carried an air of someone older, someone who had already seen more than most. Maybe it was the clerical collar. His voice held a hint of nostalgia as he remarked, ‘Remember, my last parish was inner-city Hull – quite a lot of refugees there. I’ve heard worse stories.’ The bluntness of his tone was both refreshing and oddly soothing, and she felt her frustrations thaw. She had done the right thing coming to see him.
‘The thing is,’ she said, her voice cracking, ‘he won’t do anything about it. He just withdraws.’
Victor’s eyes radiated genuine concern. ‘Sometimes we have to let people find their own way, even if it’s painful to watch.’ His voice was gentle, but it carried a firmness that suggested he’d seen this cycle before.
‘But what do I do?’ she pressed. ‘How do I get Omar to deal with this? How do I make him see that he shouldn’t sit back and let the world trample him?’
‘Sometimes, all you can do is trust and forgive. Not for their sake necessarily, but for your own peace. If you can let go of the frustration, maybe you’ll see the path forward more clearly.’ His advice, tender and earnest, felt like amist trying to smothera wildfire. Ivy couldn’t reconcile it with the frustration burning within her. Forgiveness? Trust? Where would that get Omar and his sister?
She let out a shaky laugh. ‘I wish it were that simple.’
He meant well, and she didn’t want to say it, but she was already regretting involving the Church. What had she expected? Divine intervention? A miracle answer? That because Victor was still a formal part of the Church, his prayers would be answered when hers weren’t?
Victor reached across the desk and gently placed a hand over hers. ‘Ivy,’ he said softly, ‘sometimes the fight isn’t just about making someone else act. It’s about finding the strength within yourself to do what you believe is right. If Omar won’t fight, maybe God wants you to do that for him. But remember, forgiveness isn’t weakness – it’s the freedom to move on without the weight of anger.’
His words echoed in her ears. She closed her eyes, her breathing shallow and uneven. Somewhere beneath the familiar weight of doubt, she could feel it – a thin thread of possibility, fragile as spun glass. The knowledge sat heavy in her chest: shecouldact. Sheshouldact. But the thought made her hands tremble in her lap.
Slowly, reluctantly, she let her eyes flutter open. Maybe Victor was right. If Omar wouldn’t, or couldn’t, then ... her throat tightened. Then she would have to. The certainty felt both terrifying and inevitable, like standing at the edge of a cliff she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to jump from.
The rectory was only a stone’s throw from Prosecco & Prose, but in that short distance Ivy’s resolve thickened. She couldn’t ignore Omar’s plight, nor the misappropriation of charity funds. There must be someone who could help. She yanked on an apron and the next hour dissolved into spatulas scraping against sizzling pans as eggs bubbled and firmed; teabags bobbing insteaming mugs thrust into waiting hands.
