Page 82 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
His dark eyes steadied. ‘I’m ready to fight to clear my name’ he said. ‘God will help me; and I hope you will too.’
Ivy nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. She noticed Victor standing with one hand hovering over the bank of light switches. They needed to go. She, of all people, knew how busy vicars were at this time of year. Victor swept down the aisle. As he drew closer, he murmured, his voice light but thoughtful, ‘The hardest journeys often lead us exactly where we’re meant to be.’
Ivy stared at him, his words striking a chord deep within her.Maybe he was cut out to be a vicar after all.
‘Goodnight Victor,’ she said, steering Omar towards the door. She popped her hymnal in the old bookcase used to store them, the top stained from generations of congregants leaving damp umbrellas there to dry. Omar pulled an envelope from his pocket. ‘For you,’ he said.
She frowned, opened it with shaky fingers and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Omar leaned over, pointing to the page. ‘It’s details of an online course in Persian, so we can read Rumi’s poems together. I spent three days sorting out Margaret’s garden to buy you this.’ Emotion surged through her – gratitude, relief, love. Not just for the gift, but for what it meant. He had thought about her. Even when he was running, he had thought about her
Helen, Omar, Ivy and Trish returned to the Smuggler’s Inn, collected their pre-ordered drinks and toasted Omar’s return. The pub’s fairy lights reflected in Omar’s dark eyes as he spoke, his voice forceful. ‘I want to thank you all for trying to help me. When I was away, I came up with an idea. If Farid still works there, I think he would help.’
‘Farid!’ exclaimed Helen, her eyes darting from Trish to Ivy. Ivy held her breath, wondering if Helen would reveal that she had spoken to Farid.
‘Yes. he helped me, before. He knows my leaving protected him.’
Ivy watched him over the rim of her glass. The defensive young man who she had discovered in her shed over two months ago had vanished like morning mist. In his place sat someone stronger, determined. Somewhere a dart hit the board with a dull thud.
Helen shuffled closer to Omar, her notebook open. ‘If we gave you a list, do you think you could ask him for some specific information?’
Ivy caught Trish’s knowing look across the table – they’d both spotted Helen’s hand drift closer to Omar’s.
‘He could dig into those payments to suppliers we think are duplicated,’ suggested Trish.
‘And the bank accounts.’ Helen’s voice took on the sharp edge Ivy suspected dated from her journalism days. ‘Look for patterns. Connections. Money trails.’ Her shoulder brushed Omar’s as she reached for her pen. He shuffled closer to the teacher.
The scene blurred slightly, and Ivy took a too-large sip of wine to cover her sudden emotion. Joy and loneliness tangled in her chest, knotted like old jewellery chains. Omar deserved this, deserved someone looking at him that way; he’d found his courage, he’d earned his happiness. If only she could find her own way past the Fred-shaped hole in her life.
Trish, who was practically vibrating with energy, said, ‘If we could get Farid to help, we could crack this wide open.’
‘I will call him,’ Omar said firmly. ‘Helen, you can give me a list of what you want.’
‘I’ll bring it round to you later,’ Helen said softly, her hand finally covering his.
Ivy felt Trish’s foot tap hers under the table, a silent ‘Are you okay?’ She managed a small nod. She had Omar. Not as the frightened refugee who’d needed her protection, but as something more precious. A son of her heart, if not her blood.
Then Helen’s journalistic instincts surfaced. ‘I’ve still got some contacts. I think I might be able to get someone interested in this story. We could do with some backup.’
‘What about taking the evidence to the police?’ Omar added.
Pride swelled again in Ivy’s chest.
‘To justice,’ Trish said, raising her glass.
‘To courage,’ Helen added, her eyes on Omar.
‘To friends,’ Ivy said softly, and Omar’s free hand found hersunder the table and squeezed gently.
Ivy sensed the atmosphere alter, like a sudden drop in air pressure before a storm. The laughter dissolved, conversations hushed, a whisper of unease threading through the room, punctuated by nudges and furtive glances toward the bar. She craned her neck, searching for the source of the change in mood. Then she saw him: Robby, standing with one elbow on the polished bar top.
He walked over, crystal tumbler in hand, looking at Omar with the same expression Ivy had seen people use for beggars.
‘I thought you’d pushed off. Finally gone back to where you belong.’ His voice dripped with false concern.
Omar didn’t flinch, but Ivy felt him go still. Then he drew his hand away from hers and spoke. ‘I’m not going back.’
Robby’s voice dropped low, each word tight as a drawn bowstring. ‘You don’t belong here. We don’t need your sort in this country.’
Ivy’s muscles tensed.
