Page 70 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
His face flashed with anger, and for a moment, their eyes locked, two souls entangled in the wreckage of broken expectations. ‘Don’t you judge me,’ he said, his voice threaded with irritation. ‘I’m doing what needs to be done, even if it’s not what you want.’ He huffed a sigh then looked at her, his eyes blazing, ‘You are the one being selfish here. Omar isn’t a solution to your loneliness.’
His words landed like a slap, silencing her. She’d been right all along – Fred didn’t love her. Worse, he hadseen her loneliness, not with affection, but with pity. And she, blind to it all, had come within a breath of baring her heart to a man who had never truly wanted her, only pitied her. She took a step back, feeling the weariness seep into her bones. Tonight, she felt every one of her fifty-nine years. For a long, heart-wrenching moment, neither of them spoke. To Ivy it seemed the silence was filled with the echoes of all that might have been. Thank goodnessshe had hidden her feelings for Fred. She had been grasping at smoke.
But she needed to defend herself. ‘That’s unfair. Don’t question my motives when you’re too much of a coward to risk getting involved. You are weak and selfish. You are not the man I thought you were. You should be ashamed.’
‘You think that way if it makes you feel better. Sometimes the truth is painful to accept.’
He bent down, snatching up a bag and slung it over his shoulder. ‘This way Omar might survive.’
‘Survive?’ she repeated, her voice cracking. ‘You call this survival? Running away is not survival, it’s surrender.’ She gulped down a sob. ‘You’re leaving me with nothing,’ she whispered, more to herself than to Fred.She stared at him, trying to read his thoughts. Did Fred realize that this was the end of their friendship? Did he care? It didn’t sound like it.
‘I’m taking Omar away. I’m doing what I believe is best for him. Protecting him.’
She ran her hands over her face. ‘Wait. Give me a minute. I have something I want to give him before he leaves.’
Still reeling from so many harsh words, Ivy stumbled from the cottage, rushing into her own, jogging up the stairs to retrieve a padded envelope. She pulled the flaps apart, glancing in at the contents, then ran back to Fred’s.
‘This is for Omar,’ she said, resealing the envelope and passing it to him. He took it, turned away and, without a backward glance, strode down the path toward his car. Ivy watched, her heart in pieces. Snow fell in a relentless, mournful whisper, each flake a reminder of all she had lost. She closed her eyes, trying to recall the tender moment when Fred had kissed her, but now, that memory tasted only of ash and sorrow.
Ivy pounded up the path towards the weathered stone walls ofSt Peter’s which had been the anchor to her life for decades. Strains of ‘O little town of Bethlehem’ filtered out of the church. For once, Victor was on time. Panting, she pushed at the oak door. Inside, the stained glass windows glowed with candlelight, casting a mosaic of light across the polished wooden pews and the families bundled up in winter coats and scarves – the ineffectiveness of the church heating system was no secret. Every child cradled an orange wrapped in a red ribbon and studded with cocktail sticks bearing dried fruit and sweets, a small candle glowing from its centre–the cherished symbol of the Christingle, representing the light of the world. The air was sticky with incense, reminding Ivy, as if she needed more sorrow, of her past lost love, James.
She scooted to the back of the church and sat quietly, her heart heavy as she scanned the congregation. Everyone seemed to radiate festive joy and hope, a contrast to her overwhelming emptiness. Omar and Fred should have been sitting beside her. The hope of a future intertwined with them, once so vivid and full of promise, had evaporated.
For the next half an hour, she joined in with the carols and listened to the readings, but her voice was subdued, the words seeping out of her mouth without the happiness she normally experienced when singing. Ivy closed her eyes for a moment, trying to recapture the memory of better times, remembering the way Fred had looked at her during last year’s Christingle service, his eyes alight as he cradled his orange, looking closer to six in age rather than sixty.
When Victor solemnly invited the congregation to pray, most people slumped forward, but Ivy sank to her knees, pushing aside the padded kneeler. The hard floor pressed against her kneecaps as she covered her face with her hands, tasting salt as tears slipped between her fingers and down to her lips. She prayed for Omar, that wherever he was going, he would findpeace and happiness, and she prayed for Fred, that he would forgive her harsh words. She didn’t want him hating her.
At the end of the service, Ivy dropped to her knees again, reciting the Lord’s Prayer, trying to derive peace from the familiar words. She listened to the children’s laughter, the soft shuffle of footsteps as the congregation left, felt the chill of the night seeping through from the open church door. When she heard it shut, Ivy pushed herself back onto the pew, swiping at a tear threatening to spill out of the corner of an eye. Victor stalked over in his white surplice and red stole, still clutching a Christingle orange. His dog collar was askew, and a hasty attempt at smoothing his dishevelled hair had left a cowlick standing straight up at the back looking like an attachment for a halo. To add to the comedy, Victor had accidentally put his purple Advent stole on underneath the red one.
He really is hapless, thought Ivy, feeling the stirrings of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
Victor’s brow creased. ‘Ivy, are you alright?’ he asked in a gruff but well-meaning tone. ‘This must be difficult ... Seeing me, I mean. This has been your church for so long, your place, but God will help.’
Victor’s clumsy words hurt more than she expected. She rose and smiled tightly, then bid him goodnight.
Back at her cottage, Ivy curled up on the window seat. She didn’t light a fire. She had gathered the kindling and firelighters but staring into the cold grate she tossed them aside. What was the point? Snow had turned to sleet, a soft, rhythmic pitter-patter against the windowpane. She cradled Jezreel close, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, a tender reminder of unconditional love in a world that tonight felt so unforgiving.
Her thoughts churned. God only sent her challenges she was strong enough to face, but this time he was testing her faithto breaking point. She should never have encouraged everyone to start that futile investigation into FF. She should never have allowed Helen to get involved, meddling and stirring up hope and upending her life into a tragic comedy. Omar couldn’t handle the weight of expectations, the burden of a fight that had become too dangerous. He had started down the path of exposing the charity’s corruption, but fear of what might happen to his sister and her family had made him retreat. All he wanted was to protect them and disappear from the Taliban’s attention.
Had Ivy been selfish, she wondered, getting caught up in the rights and wrongs of what was going on in a distant land? Her fingers absent-mindedly traced patterns on the puppy’s silky fur. She had pushed Omar too hard, hoping that, because she believed in justice, she could make him believe in it too, despite his warning that he didn’t want to fight. Now he was gone. She would probably never see him again.
Perhaps she had lost her pastoral care skills. Maybe she should take up gardening or knitting. An uncomplicated, undemanding hobby. Or golf – that would soak up hours of her time.
Then she thought of Fred. She replayed that memory over and over: the soft glow of the pub lights, the warmth that had filled her as Fred looked down at her under the mistletoe. The way his lips had brushed against hers, a moment so perfect, it had seemed unreal. How had she been so foolish? She had swapped their easy-going friendship for the dangerous pursuit of love and ended up with neither. His spiteful, angry words about her loneliness, his accusations of being selfish haunted her like a hard-hitting sermon she couldn’t escape.
But what hurt the most was the way neither of the men had shown any regret, while her heart had been ripped to pieces. They had both driven off, seemingly completely unmoved.
She rose, carried Jez to his basket and tucked the slumbering dog beneath his blanket, still mulling over the wreckage of herlife. A soft knock on the door startled her. She spun around as Trish hoped in, shaking off her damp coat and hanging it on a peg.
‘I heard.’ she said.
What had she heard?wondered Ivy. Trish folded Ivy in her arms, hugging hard but speaking gently. ‘Helen told me that Fred has taken Omar somewhere safe.’
Ivy pulled away. ‘How did Helen know?’
‘Omar went to say goodbye to her.’
That hurt. Really hurt. ‘I failed him, Trish,’ she moaned. ‘You didn’t fail him,’ Trish said, her voice imbued with compassion. ‘You gave him something no one else has – hope. It’s up to him to decide what to do with it. Now, are we going to clear his name for him, or are you giving up? Are we going to be the kind of people who cross to the other side of the street?’
