A Perfect Devon Christmas (Brambleton #3)
Prologue
Thirty-nine years ago, Bristol
The rain had stopped, leaving King Street’s cobblestones gleaming under the streetlights.
Across the harbour, the bells of St Nicholas were still echoing as Ivy slipped her hand through James’s arm – firm, steadying – relishing the sharp thrill of longing that shot through her.
Even after six months together – her first real relationship at the age of twenty – she still felt a small thrill at his touch.
They’d met the previous summer at a Christian retreat in Buckfast Abbey, in Devon, where she’d been helping in the kitchen and he’d been one of the student volunteers leading prayer groups.
‘Did you see Mrs Patterson’s face during the peace?’ James asked, his fingers working nervously at his seminary collar, twisting it askew. ‘I think she’s struggling more than she lets on.’
Ivy nodded, her hand finding his as their footsteps fell into rhythm.
‘Since her husband died, she’s been—’ Ivy paused, tutting softly. ‘Well, you saw how she gripped my hand during the prayers. I think she’s barely holding it together.’
They both stopped. Ahead, huddled in the doorway of a shuttered shop, a figure bundled in layers of clothing clutched a sleeping bag around his shoulders, cardboard spread beneath him against the cold stone.
A young man, maybe Ivy’s age, with hollow cheeks and hands wrapped around a paper cup that steamed in the cold.
James was already reaching into his pocket. ‘Evening,’ he said gently, crouching down. ‘Rough night to be out.’
The young man looked up, eyes wary. ‘Just trying to stay warm, mate.’
‘Have you eaten?’ Ivy found herself asking.
What followed was an hour in a late-night café, Ivy buying tea and sandwiches while James sat across from John – only nineteen, brought up in care – who had been sleeping rough for two months. They listened to his story without judgement. No sermons, no conditions. Just company.
Once they had finally given John enough information about a shelter, and a promise to check on him tomorrow, they walked slowly through the empty streets toward Ivy’s flat.
‘You know what I love about this?’ James said suddenly, catching her hand, his fingers still cold from the night air. ‘How natural it felt. Like this is exactly what we’re meant for.’
Ivy squeezed his hand, feeling something settle in her chest; a certainty she’d never experienced before. ‘Together, you mean?’
‘Together, yes, but more than that.’ He stopped walking and turned to face her, his dark eyes serious in the lamplight. ‘Ivy, when I imagine our life – whatever God has planned for us – it’s this. Being there for people when they need it most. Never walking past someone who’s hurting.’
She could see their future then, as clearly as if it were written on the pavement, parishes and problems and late-night calls, but always side by side, always reaching out together.
‘Promise me,’ James said, his voice soft but insistent. ‘Promise me that whatever happens, we’ll never turn our backs on someone who needs us. That we’ll never be the kind of people who cross to the other side of the street.’
The promise felt like a sacred vow, passing between them in the Bristol night. Ivy reached up to touch his face, tracing the line of his jaw.
‘I promise,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s never turn away.’
He kissed her then, gentle and certain, and she tasted the future on his lips: a life of service and love and absolute faith that they would never let each other down, never let anyone down.
The harbour bells chimed midnight, and Ivy thought she had never been surer of anything in her life.