Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery: A heart-warming Christmas romance full of surprises

by Sharon Ibbotson

  Later, they all walked together to airport security. Esther turned to Cohen awkwardly, reaching out for him. She pulled him into her arms, and even though he was already as tall as she was – maybe even taller – she manoeuvred him so that his head was pressed against her shoulder. She ran a hand through his hair, and he had to resist the urge to cling to her, to beg her to stay. To never leave him, like the rest of the world seemed to.

  But she disengaged from his arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead. ‘You be good for your uncle,’ she told him sternly.

  Israel put a confident arm around Cohen, pulling him from Esther’s embrace.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ he said easily. ‘A couple of days in Philadelphia, and then I’m taking this boy up to the ranch. Going to teach him a thing or two about life. Wait and see. I’ll make a man out of this boy, Esther.’

  They watched as Esther walked through airport security, her petite frame suddenly so much smaller next to the hulking security guards with their sinister metal detectors and loaded guns. Cohen swallowed as she disappeared from view, abruptly feeling both bereft and abandoned. Israel gave a resigned sigh, before turning to Cohen and nodding.

  ‘Alright then kid, let’s go.’

  Cohen nodded, but his stomach was in knots. He’d always dreaded any time that had to be spent with his uncle. Israel, with his shaggy beard, wild eyes and missing hand, was a prime example of what his father once described as ‘war doing messed up things to people’.

  After Korea, Israel spent some time working with Esther at Sedler Enterprises. He was the son and heir, after all, and expected to take over the company when their father eventually walked away. But his heart was never really in it and he didn’t have a head for corporate business. So, after Cohen’s grandfather died, Esther transformed part of Sedler Enterprises into The Sedler Foundation, a non-profit organisation to help eliminate debt in the third world, hoping to keep her brother working by her side. But Israel simply walked away. Esther couldn’t fault him for that; she knew her brother, knew that Sedler was her project and her passion and not his. But then Esther would never fault Israel for anything. Of everyone in her life, Israel was her one constant, the only man who never let her down. Her father, Jim, even Cohen ... one by one, they all failed her. But not Israel. Never Israel. Esther called, and Israel came. That was the way it was; the way it would always be.

  For years, Israel took on a nomad-like existence. Postcards from far-flung corners of the world adorned their kitchen, as well of photographs of Israel in various examples of native garb or, even worse, a state of undress he did little to conceal. It was on some drug-addled beach in Thailand, while celebrating the rebirth of the moon, that Israel met and married a bedraggled hippy named Merari-Sage. The highlight of Cohen’s early teens was seeing Esther take in her brother’s new wife. He wished he had a photograph of the moment Esther and Merari met, Esther’s smile growing ever more false as she encountered Merari’s homespun tie-dyed kaftan, her floral headdress and her henna-covered hands, which she shook with a wince while saying ‘It’s so lovely to meet you, Merari-Sage. What a pretty name you have.’ Merari had dreamily replied ‘Why, thank you, Esther. In any language, both my names mean bitter.’ As Esther drove home, oddly pensive, the only thing she would say, over and over again, was ‘at least she’s Jewish’.

  Merari and Israel ended up settling on what they called their ‘ranch’, although that was a big stretch of the imagination. In reality, their ‘ranch’ was a ramshackle farm, cold and draughty, where the couple grew herbs, baked cakes, milked cows, pressed their own homemade soaps and, more terrifyingly, communed with nature. It always sent a shiver down Cohen’s spine when he overheard Esther on the phone with her brother, organising a visit between them, inevitably ending her call with ‘love to you both, see you soon, but don’t forget to wear clothes this time, okay?’

  So, Cohen didn’t know what to expect when the prospect of four months with his half-baked uncle and loopy aunt loomed before him. However, Israel surprised Cohen by taking him straight from the airport to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

  ‘Sorry kid, work before pleasure,’ Israel explained with a sigh as he parked his van. ‘The Sedler Foundation made a donation to the museum a few months back, and I promised your mother I’d go in and sign a few documents, have a photo or two taken in her stead, before we head off. I’ll be an hour or two. Take yourself for a walk around the museum, and here,’ Israel pressed a fifty dollar note into Cohen’s hand, ‘buy yourself some lunch. I’ll meet you back here later.’

  Cohen knew nothing about art; he was a fifteen-year-old boy who couldn’t give a damn about paintings of people and by people long since dead. But he did as he was told, wandered around the museum and looked at nothing in particular, before stopping to eat a pretentious, overpriced sandwich. Quite frankly, he was bored witless and was about to head back to the van when he saw a crowd of people gathered around one particular image. They were standing reverently, clearly in awe and oddly silent. His interest caught, Cohen stopped, looking to see what the gathered masses were so excited by.

  And it was ... nothing. Only a canvas image of a vase of flowers. The brush strokes were messy, the paint layered on thick. It was yellow and blue, startling in its intensity, but also almost too much to look at all at once.

  But stare he did, because there was something in the lines of the painting that caught him, something in the bright colours that appealed. The pigments were rich, the yellow so warm that he could almost feel the sun on his skin and the softness of a petal under his fingertips. In fact, he became so caught up in a moment of art appreciation that he jumped when he felt Uncle Israel’s false hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Van Gogh,’ Israel mused, looking at the painting. ‘A repetition from the Sunflowers series.’

  ‘A repetition?’ Cohen queried.

  ‘A copy by the artist. The original of this one is in Munich.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I never would have taken you for an art fan.’ Israel considered him, his eyes searching. ‘Your father certainly never was.’

  ‘Well, I’m not my father,’ Cohen returned hotly.

  ‘No. No you’re not,’ Israel agreed. ‘And good thing too, because all that man ever did was let your mother down.’ He sighed, looking at the painting one more time. ‘Well kid, give me five more minutes, and we can get out of here.’

  Cohen nodded as Israel walked away. But then, as he stood – alone again – staring at the vase of warm sunflowers, a bitter taste rose in his throat.

  Because while his mother and uncle may have thought about how Jim let Esther down, neither of them considered Cohen for a moment. And that rankled in his mind.

  Standing in a cold gallery in a strange city, his mother in another country, with the prospect of four months with his uncle and aunt before him, Cohen felt a stirring of rage.

  Because Jim didn’t just let Esther down. No. He let Cohen down too.

  And Cohen decided, then and there, that he would never ever forgive him for that.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  Not for as long as he, or his father, lived.

  River’s letter was succinct and to the point, which Cohen appreciated. The night air was cold, whipping over them with a chilling intensity, while snow started to lazily settle on the ground beneath their feet.

  Cohen,

  You’re not an idiot, so you’ll know there are five human senses (and don’t talk to me about the fabled ‘sixth sense’, because I’m also not an idiot, and if ever I do die and hang around this planet rather than drifting through the stars or going to meet Elvis, I want you to kill me again).

  Sadly, fate has taken hearing off of the sensual menu for me; that particular kitchen is permanently closed. C’est la vie. Life goes on.

  But there are still four other kitchens pumping out proverbial food.

  Sight, taste, smell and touch. So, let’s try them all tonight ... together?

  Our firs
t stop is right behind us.

  Cohen looked up at River, who was grinning widely. She motioned to her right, and he glanced in that direction.

  And then he was grinning too.

  The National Gallery, sitting at the top of Trafalgar Square, was imposing in its majesty and outlook. The building itself was a work of art, bedecked by low-lit fountains and gracious, winding steps. The white limestone, cool under Cohen’s fingers, brightened the grey landscape, and from the entrance itself the view of London was beautiful. From here the slow-moving hands of Big Ben were visible, as was the graceful curve of the Millennium Wheel and the orange-hued lights of the city. Cohen stopped, keen to take it all in, before River’s warm hand in his made to pull him forward.

  He instantly complied.

  A woman at the entrance smiled warmly, and her hands sprang to life as she started to talk.

  ‘Good evening, and welcome to the National Portrait Gallery of London. Are you both signed up for this evening’s SeeHear tour?’

  River’s hands became animated as she answered, and the woman nodded.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said, while signing, ‘Well, if you could both just tick your names off the list and sign in, the guide will be ready in around ten minutes.’

  ‘The guide?’ Cohen asked, and the woman’s eyes took him in, instantly noting his lack of signing.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, although she continued to sign for River’s benefit. ‘Tonight, we have a guided tour of part of the gallery taking place. It’s for hearing-impaired people like your—’ she paused, clearly uncertain of which word to use ‘—your friend,’ she finally finished, although Cohen winced at the word. River was everything to him and describing her simply as a friend felt empty, completely lacking in meaning or emotion.

  But he shook the feeling off, which was new for him. He knew he didn’t need this woman, or anyone else, to validate what he and River shared.

  That was for them, and them alone.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Where do I pay?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The woman frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘For the tour? Where do I pay?’

  Because he’d be damned if River was putting her hand in her pocket this evening. Cohen was the son of Esther Sedler after all, and the grandson of Adelaide Appelbaum, who was a distant descendant of Austrian royalty (although that was a long-buried set of bones in a closet full of skeletons that Israel and Esther never brought up), and he might be an utter bastard at work and a black-hearted swine to all who knew him, but he was still a gentleman and, as such, tonight he would pay.

  But the woman shook her head. ‘Sir,’ she said, and her voice pulsed with affront, ‘art and beauty are for everyone. There is nothing to pay.’

  But Cohen stared at her, because her words made no sense. Everything in life came at a price. Nothing in life that was beautiful or good or sincere was free. But then River pulled on his hand, shaking her head and motioning to the guide for a pen. She hurriedly scribbled for a moment, before pushing a note into Cohen’s hand.

  All public galleries and museums in London operate on an optional donation only basis, Cohen.

  And damn, he’d been here a year and didn’t know that. But in his defence, who had the time for perusing galleries and museums when there was work to be done and money to be made?

  Still, he stood taller. ‘Where do I make a donation, then?’

  Now the woman was all smiles. ‘We have two stands in the main hall where you can deposit notes and coins. We suggest a donation of ten pounds per visit, but of course, that is completely optional.’

  Ten pounds? Cohen was baffled by the paltry sum. This woman was signing and this museum was about to run a tour that River could actually understand, so ten pounds seemed almost offensive in its thriftiness. So he put sixty pounds into the box, feeling it was money well spent, perhaps the best he had spent all year. Maybe even in his whole life.

  By half past eight a small crowd of people had gathered, but the hall remained silent. Around them, hands and arms moved like a pulsing tide through a sea of people, and Cohen was adrift. But River linked her arm through his, her head on his shoulder, and her steady warmth against him was the only raft he needed. Their silence was companionable, utterly calming and completely engrossing, and for once, Cohen stood still, concentrating only on the woman beside him, not caring about the curious stares and subtle glances he knew they were receiving.

  The guide arrived and began their tour. He talked as well as signed, and as they drifted from painting to painting, taking in works by Monet, Michelangelo, Da Vinci and Gauguin, Cohen listened eagerly. There was something profound in knowing that the words he heard were the same that River saw, that their understanding of this moment was for once the same. The gallery was silent as the group made their way around, only the guide’s smooth voice and the echoing of their footsteps breaking the quiet, and Cohen looked for repetition in the hand movements, learning the signs for words like blue, brush, sky, water and shadow.

  Then they reached Sunflowers.

  ‘Here is a painting that, of course, needs no introduction. This is the fourth version of Van Gogh’s famous Sunflowers series, painted in 1888 in Arles, France. This painting is on permanent loan from the Tate Gallery, who bought it in 1924 at auction and ...’

  Cohen listened, enraptured, a lump in his throat. In that moment, he was not a grown man, living in a foreign country, divorced and on the first date that had meant anything to him since, well, forever. He was not the next CEO of Roberts-Canning LLC, known for his sheer ruthlessness, efficient brutality and somewhat terrifying business practices. He was not the son who sent his mother’s calls to voicemail, just as he was not the son who ignored the pitiful entreaties of a dying father.

  In that moment, he was a boy again, alone and confused, abandoned by both of his parents. He was a boy, unheard, unseen and lacking in affection. Once again, he felt awkward in the tall lines of his body, the broad width of his shoulders, in the deep voice of his adulthood.

  In that moment he was as lost as he ever was, perhaps would ever be. In that moment, he was so absolutely afraid that it actually hurt.

  But just as he went to take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to find his centre, attempting to bring himself back to reality, two warm arms snaked around his stomach. He looked down to find River looking up at him, her chest pressed to his stomach, her eyes full of concern, while her lips parted slightly in a question she could not form with words.

  Are you okay?

  And no, he wasn’t okay. He was very close to falling apart, and his trigger was simply a vase of yellow sunflowers.

  He inhaled again, concentrating on the feeling of River against him, letting that bring him back to the here and now and away from a painful past that kept rearing an ugly head to bite him in the ass. But River suddenly disengaged from him, pulling on the arm of a nearby stranger and signing at him.

  The stranger looked from River to Cohen and back to River again, before clearing his throat.

  ‘She wants to know if you’re okay?’ he asked.

  Cohen gave a tight nod. ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine. Tell her that one day I need to let her know all about my father.’

  The man smirked but signed as Cohen asked. River signed back, and the man almost laughed.

  ‘She says that one day she’ll need to tell you all about hers. She also wants to know if you’d like to get out of here.’

  And God, yes, Cohen absolutely did. It wasn’t that he didn’t like art. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the absolute mastery of Holbein, Cézanne, Dali and Raphael. It was only that, right at that moment, there could be absolutely nothing more beautiful to him than River. And no matter how fine the stroke of a brush, no matter how intense the depth of a colour, no matter how poignant the meaning behind an image, none of them, none of them at all, could compare with the masterpieces that were the soft curves of River’s body, the pinkish hue of her lips or the stories she could tell with her
eyes.

  And he didn’t want to waste another second appreciating anything else.

  ‘Yes, I want to get out of here,’ Cohen practically purred the words, and the stranger took a step back at his intensity.

  Still, he signed the words to River, nodding as she signed back.

  He shrugged. ‘She says something about the letter? You need to read the next page?’

  And Cohen’s eyes must have brightened as he turned back to River, because the stranger tapped him on the shoulder, and when he spoke again, his hands were still.

  ‘Look mate,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘I can tell you’ve got it bad for this girl. Take my advice, learn yourself some BSL. And fast. I know of some centres that can help you. Good ones.’

  ‘Any in New York?’ Cohen asked him, and the stranger looked at him quizzically. ‘That’s where I live,’ Cohen explained.

  The stranger looked at River, with her hopeful eyes, to Cohen, whose affection for her must have been seeping from every pore. The stranger clicked his tongue and gave a deep sigh, before looking Cohen deep in the eyes.

  ‘Son,’ he said patiently. ‘I don’t mean to tell you your business … but are you sure this is a good idea?’

  But Cohen had never been more certain of anything else in his life.

  Cohen took River’s arm as they left the gallery. When they stepped out again into the evening air, the cold was like a slap against his skin and he saw River shiver.

  And that was not acceptable to Cohen. Not in the slightest.

  He shrugged his coat from his shoulders, wrapping it around River’s thin arms, luxuriating in the image of her wearing his clothes. The coat dwarfed her, but damn if it wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever seen her wear. She held up her hands as if to protest, but Cohen shook his head, even as goosebumps pimpled over his arms. They were nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with her, but still, she exhaled in concern, before reaching up, pulling her scarf from her neck and wrapping it around his. It was red gingham, and he was fairly certain he now looked like an Italian version of Sherlock Holmes, but still ... it was something of hers on him, and he knew that from this moment on, he would keep this scarf forever.