Page 78 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
‘I know it’s a lot to ask,’ he said, stopping to face her. ‘But you’re the only person I trust with this. You understand my pain; how much I’m sacrificing. My faith journey ... it means everything to me, Ivy. I need your help.’
She stared at him, this man she had loved for three years. The man she still loved, watching the earnest hope in his eyes. He was asking her to guide him through his conversion from the Anglican to the Catholic faith.
‘I ... , I ...’ she stuttered. Ivy stared out of the window at the tumbling snow, unable to meet his eyes.
‘I need help,’ James said, his voice soft but pleading. ‘And you’re not the kind of person who crosses to the other side of the street.’
George Micheal’s singing echoed Ivy’s torment – she’d given James her heart and he’d betrayed her love.
‘I can’t,’ she said finally, the words barely audible. She dragged her eyes away from the snow and looked at him. She owed him that much. ‘I’m sorry, James. I just ... I can’t’.’
She’d fled Bristol the next morning, leaving behind her flat, and the bewildered hurt in James’s eyes. She’d broken her vow, the most sacred promise she’d ever made.And it was James, of all people, that she had refused to help. She had crossed to the other side of the street to protect her own heart.For more than thirty years since, she had lived by that failure, determined never to break that vow again. Omar was only the latest person, to whom she held herself bound.
The song ended, jolting Ivy back to the present. Her hands were shaking.
‘You should stop.’ Victor tried again. ‘At least until after Christmas.’
‘That’s what they want.’ Ivy’s voice was fierce. She took a gulp of mulled wine. ‘Every time good people look away, bad people win.’
‘And we’re not looking away,’ Helen said; her colour was returning, bringing her confidence with it.
Ivy slept soundly.
After sharing breakfast with Jez, she picked up a bag of training treats and led the puppy into the garden. It was just over a week to Christmas. Frost clung to the bare branches and coated the shrubs in glistening white. Last night’s snow crunched underfoot as she stepped onto where she gauged the path to be, her breath unfurling in misty plumes. She bent downto check the bird feeder, brushing ice from its wooden frame, when the unmistakable sound of footsteps the other side of the fence made her freeze, her hand in mid-air.
Her heart twisted. It had been four days since their fight. She wished she hadn’t accused him of being a coward. Ivy winced, recalling she’d told Fred he was both weak and selfish.
And yet there he was, just beyond the fence, close enough that she could hear the grating scrape of his shovel as he cleared his path. Not long ago, he would have offered to clear hers.
A battle waged within her. Part of her wanted to retreat inside, avoid the inevitable awkwardness. But another part, the stubborn part, held its ground.
Through the gaps in the fence, she glimpsed him. Fred wore his thick gardening coat and a hat pulled low against the cold. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he would have a tie knotted around his neck. His movements were precise, purposeful. As if he hadn’t spent the last few days avoidingher. As if he hadn’t broken her heart.
And then Jez did something entirely unexpected. He walked to the fence, sat down and let out a single, clear bark. The same bark Ivy had heard him use when he’d shot to Helen’s front door two nights ago.
The pieces clicked into place. Jez had started behaving, but Ivy hadn’t done anything to train him. She hadn’t even read the wretched book Fred had given her. Jez liked Fred. Fred had been looking after the puppy while she worked at Prosecco & Prose. Jez had stopped munching cushions and seemed to respond to Fred’s commands. Had Fred been secretly training Jez? Her heart squeezed as she realized that Fred was the explanation for why Jez now sat like a patient debutante waiting to be asked to dance, rather than tearing round her cottage destroying the contents.
Before she could stop herself, she cleared her throat. ‘Goodmorning.’
The scraping noise stopped. Fred’s shovel paused mid-air. For a moment, he didn’t look up. Slowly, he straightened, put his shovel down and stepped closer to the fence. His expression was deadpan, but something in his eyes caught her attention, something restrained, hesitant.
‘Morning,’ he said, his voice gruffer than usual.
Silence stretched between them, thick as the frost-laden air. Ivy busied herself by kicking at a patch of ice while her mind whirred. There had been a time when any silence between them had been comfortable, companionable. Now it was a chasm.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘Are you still coming for Christmas dinner?’
He blinked, as if caught off guard. ‘Do you still want me there?’
The question stung. Of course, she didn’t just wanthim there. She wanted him all the time,everywhere. She desperately wanted things to go back to how they had been before. But that was gone, lost in the wreckage of that row.
She swallowed, pushing her emotions aside. Telling herself it was the right thing to do, the Christian thing to do, she spoke, trying to inject brightness into her voice. ‘Come any time after the family service. Trish and Helen are coming too.’
Fred’s mouth twitched, something close to a forced smile, but it faded quickly. He studied her for a long moment, as if searching for something in her face. Then he nodded. ‘Alright.’
Ivy exhaled, surprised by how tight her chest felt. She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath.
‘Can I bring anything? A bottle of wine, my winter vegetables? Or can I help in some way?’ he asked.
