Page 61 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Ivy felt the blood drain from her face. Colin. A trusted friend. The man who had sat across from her at countless dinners, who had encouraged her ideas for parish outreach programmes, who had watched her pour herself into becoming the perfect vicar’s wife. It was a triple betrayal: by James, by Colin, and by the Church.
The smooth coffee cup slipped from her numb fingers, and she scrabbled to catch it. A butterfly danced past, wings catching the sunlight, oblivious to the way her world was shattering. The honeysuckle scent that had seemed so sweet now felt cloying, overwhelming.
‘But if you do that,’ she whispered. ‘We can’t ...’
‘I know.’ His voice broke. ‘God is asking me to give up everything. Even you. Especially you.’
The bell tolled again, marking an ending she had not seen coming. Her untouched coffee grew warm between her hands as the sun blazed around them, bright and merciless as divine fire. What James couldn’t know was that Colin had spoken to her just days before, gently suggesting that perhaps she was pushing James too hard, that her ambitions for their future might not align with true service. ‘A vicar’s wife must be malleable, Ivy,’ he had said with that paternal smile of his. ‘I wonder if you might find the roleconstraining.’ Now she understood the true meaning behind those words. He hadn’t been advising her. He had been undermining her. The institution she had trusted had taken that trust and used it against her. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she asked herself why the Church had done that, and then it dawned on Ivy that this was God calling her too, telling her that her destiny was not to be the wife of a vicar, but to be one herself.
It took years of prayer to shake off her disappointment atlosing her future with James. She had never sought solace in anyone else. And maybe it was being ostracized by the Church, which had led her to consider Fred in a new light. She switched her gaze to her own cottage, where Jez sat on the windowsill. He must have jumped up there when she left with the recycling. The puppy’s head tilted as if curious. ‘Some things are just not meant to be, Jezreel,’ Ivy muttered. ‘I’ll just have to grow old with you for company instead.’
She plodded back toward the cottage. As she reached the door, her hand trembled against the handle. The old familiar ache blooming sharp in her chest, for the children she’d never had with James, claimed by the Catholic Church, now heightened with the sorrow of a life stolen by this intelligent, warm young woman turning Fred’s head.
Twenty
While Ivy and Trish fielded lunch orders, Helen sat at the counter, a screen open in front of her, delving into FF’s murky secrets.
The café was a swirl of activity. Ivy darted between tables, taking orders and carrying laden trays. She could feel the adrenaline kicking in as the familiar chaos engulfed her. There was never a moment to breathe. Her body ached, her mind too, but the rhythm was her own. She had mastered it, at least on the surface. Then the thought hit her – when was the last time she’d even looked for another job? She hadn’t updated her CV in days, maybe more. She’d stopped searching. A customer smiled at her, but Ivy barely registered it. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice whispered: was this what she wanted? Between this job and trying to unravel FF’s secrets, she filled her days and scraped together just enough money to live.
But while striving to help Omar always gave her a jolt of satisfaction, at the café it was different. She liked the social interaction, was grateful for the money, but, if she was honest with herself, Ivy was just keeping busy. There was no sense of achievement from opening a bottle of Prosecco. Mastering the espresso machine wasn’t the same as seeing the joy on a couple’s faces after pronouncing them man and wife.
She paused in front of Helen, and the teacher’s voice sliced through the fog of Ivy’s racing mind. ‘Hazim sent me some more documents last night.’ Helen tapped her screen with amanicured nail. Her voice dropped. ‘Payment authorizations, supplier contracts. That’s what I emailed you this morning. Did you have a chance to print them out?’
Ivy reached into the fridge, removing and uncorking another bottle of Prosecco, pouring it deftly into three flutes. ‘Yup. Brought them with me.’ She dashed to the stock room, retrieved the printouts and popped them on the counter. ‘What about the latest annual return?’
‘Got it this morning.’ Helen’s smile was triumphant. ‘I’m going to give it a detailed read tonight.’
‘I’ve got no formal training, but I’ve got experience of reading accounts,’ Trish commented, her eyes falling to the printed pages. ‘I’ve had to, to get to grips with the business.’
Ivy caught Helen’s expression register surprise. She also caught something in Trish’s tone, a determination that spoke of battles fought beyond balance sheets and profit margins. Ivy understood why Trish wanted to help. Some injustices left scars too deep to ever heal, and the only salve was preventing them from scarring another.
‘Trish would be perfect,’ said Ivy, perhaps too eagerly. ‘We’ll need all the help we can get,’ she said, walking off with a tray. By the time she returned, Helen was spreading pages across the counter as if he were dealing a deck of cards, her eyes gleaming as she picked up a page. ‘We need to look for anything unusual. Inflated executive salaries, suspicious consultancy fees, duplicate payments ...’
‘Split the work between us,’ said Ivy, noticing Trish pulling papers toward herself, scanning them with practised eyes.
The screen snapped shut. ‘I must get back to work,’ said Helen, ‘pub tonight?’
In the Smuggler’s Inn, Bing Crosby crooned softly at the customers. Ivy spotted Fred, Helen and Trish gathered rounda table in the middle of the room, scattered papers, half-empty glasses and crumpled crisp packets marking out their territory. Her jaw tightened as she watched Helen shunt closer to Fred, showing him something on her phone.
‘Ivy!’ Trish called, waving her over. She navigated her way between tables, mostly empty, a few occupied with villagers enjoying pre-Christmas drinks, as she breathed deeply, steadying herself. The smell of spiced cider and roasting meat filled the pub, mingling with the wet-dog scent of someone’s spaniel dozing under a bench.Ivy desperately wanted normality tonight. Anything but more talk of corruption and cover-ups. She craved the familiar rhythms of village life, the gentle complaints about the weather, news of someone’s grandchildren visiting for Christmas. She wanted reminders of why she and Helen were trying so hard for Omar, so he could have ordinary moments of peace, too.
‘How did you get on with those papers?’ asked Helen.
‘I’m sorry.’ Ivy replied, ‘I did have a look, but I can’t make head nor tail of them. If the charity is paying suppliers twice, I can’t see it.’
‘I’ll have another look myself.’ Said Helen.
Phewthought Ivy,off the hook.
‘Unless our accounting expert ... ?’ said Helen, smiling coyly at Fred.
Ivy felt that unwelcome taste of resentment in her mouth, and clamped it shut. Fred wriggled uncomfortably, and as if taking pity on him Trish changed the subject. ‘I was just telling these two about my cunning plan,’
‘What’s that?’ asked Ivy, sliding into a vacant chair.
‘For Operation Ghost Refugee,’ Trish declared, lowering her voice conspiratorially her, eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘I thought a good plan needs a proper code name. After what you said to Helen in the stockroom last night, I spoke with mycousin in Exeter. He’s had a cancellation, and one of his holiday cottages is empty until mid-January. Perfect hiding spot if we need it.’
‘Oh, well done!’ cried Ivy.
