Page 90 of A Perfect Devon Christmas
Laughterexplodedaround the room. Fred turned bright red and fumbled with his ears. ‘They are in!’
‘Well, turn them on,’ cried Margaret.
Ivy let out a breathless, half-hysterical laugh.This was ridiculous. She tried again, stepping closer, her voicegentler this time. ‘I love you, Fred Thompson. And I loved my book of Victorian poetry.’
And this time, heheard her. Andhe smiled.
Twenty-nine
The scent of roasting meat and freshly baked flatbreadsfilled Ivy’s cottage, interlaced with the spice of the mulled wine that Fred had insisted on making. Ivy was certain he’d overdone the cloves.
‘Are you sure you measured everything properly?’ she asked, peering at her glass with suspicion.
Fred huffed, arms crossed over his chest. ‘Of course I measured properly.’
‘You eyeballed it.’
‘I estimated.’
‘You guessed,’ Ivy corrected, taking a cautious sip. Itburned slightly, but in a festive way.
Fred smirked, victorious.
Ivy bustled over to check the makeshift table, and that Fred had laid enough places. Last night they had manhandled Fred’s table into her cottage, pushing it against her own, and Ivy had covered the two with a clean white tablecloth.
She felt the weight of his arm around her waist and leaned back into his embrace. ‘I’m an accountant. I can count.’
‘Just checking.’
There was a playful yap from Jez, followed by the excited squeals of two young children. Ivy tracked the noises, allowing a smile to spread across her face. Over by the Christmas tree, Sami and Yasmin were playing with Jez, while their parentswatched on, looking exhausted from their journey. Laila and her family had arrived last night, on Christmas Eve, escorted to Ivy’s cottage by Robby, who had hassled his contacts to speed up their approval under the relocation scheme for interpreters. Robby had also paid for their flights, picked them up from London and drove them to Brambleton himself.
Across the room,Omar and Helen exchanged a glance and grinned. They had claimed the seats nearest the fireplace, the heat making their faces shine. Helen had a soft, contented look about her. Omar stood, inviting everyone to take a seat at the table. ‘I guess even though we outnumber you, it’s traditional to eat at a table today,’ he said, excusing himself.
He returned, beaming as he set a steaming dish in the centre of the table.
‘This,’ he announced proudly, ‘is Qabuli Palaw, the national dish of Afghanistan. A celebration meal.’
Laila clapped her hands, and the children banged their spoons on the table. Their father leaned over, chastising them gently.
The dish wasa masterpiece–succulent lamb buried beneathlong grains of riceglinting with saffron, studded withjewel-like pomegranate seeds, and slivers of almonds. It smelledrich, spicy, utterly delicious.
Trish, perched on Ivy’s other side,rubbed her hands together. ‘Omar, that looks incredible.’
Omargrinned. ‘I had some help from Helen. She’s a natural.’
Helennudged him playfully. ‘And from Ivy – she made the star anise carrots’
Ivywatched them fondly. The turkey was in the freezer. She was planning to turn it into curry for a Twelfth Night party. She wanted this year’s Christmas celebrations to go out with a bang, especially with their long-haul visitors experiencing their first Brambleton Christmas. A week ago, this kind of scene had felt impossible – too much loss. But here they were.A little family.
Fred reached for the serving spoon. ‘Right, let’s start before Ivy starts making notes on whether I’m eating too much.’
Ivyswatted at his hand. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’
Helensnorted into her wine glass.
The food was as delicious as it looked –fragrant, tender, perfectly spiced. Omar smiled at every compliment, while Helen rolled her eyes with affection.
Even Jez, curled up, exhausted by the fire,was on his best behaviour, a minor Christmas miracle in itself.
