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

by Sharon Ibbotson

  ‘Lotus root braised in soy sauce, sea-salted kelp, jellyfish salad, aubergine in sea-spicy sauce, bitter melon in garlic sauce, bean curd in a yellow bean paste and eggs in a tomato sauce,’ the waiter told him proudly.

  ‘Right,’ Cohen replied through an abruptly dry throat, all pleasure receding in the face of such unspeakable horror.

  ‘River has excellent taste,’ the waiter assured him. ‘Her mother and the manager are friends, so her family have been coming here for years. She always picks out the best mix of flavours.’

  He signed as he spoke, and River blushed. Cohen, meanwhile, could only stare. Because was this waiter hitting on River? Now Cohen eyed him suspiciously, because this was the kind of act he did when trying to woo a woman into bed. The cheek kisses, the side-eyes, the undermining of a date, the learning of a new language just so he could speak to them and ... and oh ...

  Oh.

  Cohen sat back, regarding the waiter anew. Because yes, there was a light in the waiter’s eyes when he looked at River, and yes, he’d clearly learnt to sign for her and her alone. And suddenly, Cohen was reminded of Rushi’s warning, of how men had tried to take advantage of River, of the men who had taken advantage of her. Not this man, certainly, and not Cohen, God no, the very thought made him feel ill.

  But there it was, sitting as sourly in his stomach as the rice wine. The realisation that the only difference between him and the man who’d abused River’s trust so far was intention.

  He looked at River, at her bright hazel eyes, made brighter with wine and kissing and sunflower paintings by twilight. He looked at the delicate pink flush of her cheeks, a pink brought on by the simplest of praises, and then at the half crescent smile that accompanied that hue. He looked at her, pure and good and light and everything he had ever wanted in life, and suddenly he knew.

  He loved her.

  He must have looked astounded, stunned even, because River leaned forward, pressing a note into his shaking hand.

  I know the food sounds strange, she wrote. But please trust me. I would never let anything bad happen to you, especially on a culinary level. Flavour is kind of my thing, after all.

  And he nodded, even though she had stolen the words from his very mouth, just as she had stolen his heart, his soul and every other part he could possibly offer.

  The waiter, his own eyes narrowing, must have seen the moment of trust pass between him and River, because he leaned in closer, and when he spoke, his words were edged with malice. ‘Would sir care for a knife and fork?’ he asked. ‘Chopsticks can be tricky ... particularly with such large hands as yours.’

  But Cohen waved him away. ‘Leave the chopsticks. I’m fine with them.’ He paused. ‘Even with such large hands like mine.’

  He didn’t need cutlery. He was Jewish, after all and had eaten Chinese food every Christmas for as long as he could remember. Lights on the trees outside, carols in the air and a paper cup full of fried noodles and chicken Sichuan at Esther’s table … that was Christmas for him. He handled the wooden sticks deftly, and he could tell that River was looking at him approvingly as he easily swiped up a piece of eggplant and brought it to his lips.

  It was surprisingly delicious. The eggplant, or aubergine as it was over here, was sweet and sour and salty all at once, a mix of garlic and chilli and soy dancing on his tongue, and Cohen couldn’t remember when he last ate something so delicious. Within half an hour he’d demolished half the plate, fuelled by his desire to impress River, a true desire to eat the food before him and unwise quantities of rice wine coursing through his blood.

  Halfway through their meal, River passed him another note.

  There’s an old superstition in China, you know. They say that if you hold the chopsticks near the bottom you will marry a person close to home, but if you hold them from the top, you will marry a person far away.

  She looked pointedly at Cohen and at the chopsticks in his hands, where his fingers rested close to the base.

  Looks like we aren’t meant to be, she wrote with a cheeky smile.

  Cohen, struck dumb with love and food and warmth, didn’t immediately know how to respond or how to adequately express what he felt so strongly in his heart.

  But I think you’re my home, he eventually wrote, and River’s smile grew deep and pure.

  I think you might be mine too, she replied, and Cohen felt his heart sing.

  Tomorrow, he decided, he would come back to this restaurant and buy every last bottle of rice wine they owned. In forty years, he’d give them all to their children and grandchildren. They’d drink to l’chaim and ice cream and drunken nights with friends and family.

  When they got up to leave the restaurant, they were both tipsy and a little unsteady on their feet. But they’d hardly reached the bottom of the restaurant’s stairs when River suddenly pushed Cohen into a dark corner, raking her hands over his body, bringing her face up to his and kissing him deeply. She tasted like salt and sugar and he growled in response, pushing his hands under her clothing to grasp at soft expanses of skin. Her hands were in his hair and her tongue was in his mouth, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear Big Ben chiming midnight while Christmas carols carried melodically across the night air.

  River’s hand slipped into his pocket just as she neatly nipped at his bottom lip, pulling back from him. He moaned, reaching for her again but she stepped back, smiling at him and thrusting an envelope with ‘Scenario B’ written across the top of it.

  He opened the envelope, sporadically kissing River all the while.

  Take me home with you, is all that was written within.

  He nodded, because of course – of course – he was taking her home with him. He was taking her home and never letting her leave again.

  But something in the back of his mind clawed at him, and without thinking, he pulled the last envelope from his pocket, the one that said ‘Scenario A’.

  He looked at River, who shrugged, before nudging him to open it.

  Take me home with you.

  He looked at her again, his eyes wide.

  It’s always been you, she scrawled on the back of the envelope. I just didn’t know it until we met. This is always how we were going to be, Cohen.

  And then she kissed him again, softly this time, a kiss of love rather than of lust, a kiss that told him they had all the time in the world to be together.

  And suddenly, Cohen felt it. Deep inside him like a stirring in his blood, or perhaps even his soul.

  Cohen Ford had never been a man of faith.

  But standing there that night, a beautiful woman in his arms and a clock chiming in the background, he felt it.

  God. Or perhaps it was spirit, or maybe faith. The name in itself was not important. He only knew that it was a belief in something better. A belief in something eternal. A belief in a force that had brought him to River.

  Just where he was always meant to be.

  Big Ben chimed the last second of the last hour, just as Cohen wrapped River in his arms, and briefly he mourned the last few precious seconds of the day. This perfect, perfect day.

  This perfect, holy Tuesday.

  Chapter Nine

  Fondant

  There are many things River could notice about Cohen’s home without him flinching.

  The fact that he lived on the top two floors of a Georgian Marylebone townhouse, for one thing. A building which, his realtor assured him, Jane Austen’s brother himself once stayed in for a month in 1803. That, and the central location, sealed the deal on this otherwise bland property for Cohen. For even though his shelves were filled with crime novels, political thrillers, Roman epics and other such acceptable male novels that his father would have approved of – ‘because only girls read romance novels, Cohen’ – he secretly loved Jane Austen and re-read Pride and Prejudice every year.

  His home was tasteful and historic and expensive and in a good area. So, yes, River could notice that.

  Or the fact that he had a framed Salvador Da
li sketch in his living room. It was an old heirloom from his grandfather, one of his things that Israel and Esther never got around to donating, and one which, in its warped lines and hidden meanings, spoke to Cohen on a deeply personal level.

  His Dali was interesting and meaningful and exotic and so, yes, River could notice that.

  Then there was the old Mexican war sword he found at a market fair Christine once dragged him to. She was looking for attractive antiques, hoping to bring class to their New York penthouse. She wanted expensive and delicate items to show the world that she wasn’t just a soul-sucking gold-digger who married into money, but a woman of refined sensibility and excellent taste. Within half-an-hour Cohen was out of his mind with boredom, because who gave a damn about which tiny art-deco coffee cups they should use? Christine didn’t even drink coffee, claiming that caffeine gave her wrinkles, while Cohen preferred industrial-sized mugs for his use, so why the hell did they even need twenty-four gold embossed thimbles for coffee anyway? At this point, he’d made his way to the weaponry room and had been idly looking through old Civil War rifles when he’d seen the sword, long, sleek and dangerous, with a wrapped handle the dealer told him was an anomaly for such a weapon. Cohen picked the sword up and felt his hand thrum to life, as though it were made for him. The sword felt right in his hand, almost an extension of himself, and he bought it without a second thought. Christine had taken one look at it and shuddered, telling Cohen that it wasn’t going anywhere near her walls. But Cohen loved it and so kept it in his office until his move to London, when he put it in a glass cabinet here.

  His sword was sleek and silver and told a story, so yes, River could notice that.

  But no.

  What River first noticed when they walked into his living room was his calligraphy set. Her mouth dropped open in delight, and within thirty seconds, before he even had time to ask her if she would like a coffee (served in a tiny gold-embossed art-deco coffee cup, which he only got in the divorce because ‘you don’t even drink coffee, Christine, you heartless succubus’) she was perusing through his brushes, ink and paper.

  Cohen couldn’t help the flush of embarrassment that crossed his face, because he wasn’t an idiot, and knew that nothing screamed effeminacy more than a man who practiced calligraphy in his spare time while reading Jane Austen novels. He still remembered that summer he turned sixteen, when his father dropped in for an unexpected visit and found Cohen in his bedroom painstakingly transcribing hieroglyphics from parchment onto silk paper, and the look of mortification that crossed Jim’s face. Cohen knew what he was thinking. His father’s eyes told him everything. Real men, they seemed to say, don’t do calligraphy.

  But for Cohen, calligraphy, with its intricacies and beauty and the delicate skill required to do it justice, made sense. When he picked up a brush or pen or quill, his mind would empty, his adrenaline would fade and a kind of calm would overtake him. He found peace in the written word. He found peace in the careful application of ink to paper.

  But there was no use in telling his father that. No use in telling his father that in ancient times, scribes were always revered, intelligent men who were lauded by their people. No use in explaining that the ink printers of the fifteenth century revolutionised the world.

  No use telling his father anything other than ‘I’m sorry’.

  He was careful to hide his calligraphy set after that, though he couldn’t bear to get rid of it. The set had been a gift from his Uncle Israel on his Bar Mitzvah.

  ‘You’ve an eye for detail,’ Israel told him, for once coming across as a reasonable, normal adult. ‘And an even hand… for now,’ he’d added, nodding at his own prosthetic limb, reverting to type once more. ‘You’d make a good sofer one of these days.’

  ‘A sofer?’ Esther had intoned, shaking her head at her brother in exasperation. ‘My son? A scribe? Hmm. He can do better than that.’

  Israel, with a shrug, had walked away, going back to the ragtag crowd of Korea vets he’d dragged along to the banquet after temple. Cohen still remembered the look of horror on his mother’s face when one of Israel’s friends popped out his fake eye while the cake was being served, letting the solid eyeball roll across the table and directly into the lap of the rabbi’s wife.

  But he hadn’t thought to hide the calligraphy set away here. His father was dead now, after all, and Cohen had never had a woman in this home before. Had he known River was coming over, he would have put the set in his study and locked the door.

  But River seemed fascinated, and even when Cohen handed her a glass of wine to drink she kept going back to the table, picking up bits and pieces and motioning for him to tell her about them.

  My grandmother had a set like this, River wrote. For Chinese calligraphy. Mama taught me Chinese characters using her brushes.

  And so, Cohen drank his wine, writing little notes explaining what the brushes were and how he used them. It was not a conversation he thought he would be having, but still, he enjoyed talking about this hobby of his, and he liked the look of interest in River’s eyes as she read his notes.

  But there was also a certain growl of frustration within him, knowing that an hour ago he was grinding against this woman in a darkened alleyway, her tongue in his mouth and his hands on her thighs, secure in the knowledge that sex was almost completely guaranteed, but now ...

  Cohen sighed. Now they were sitting politely in his Georgian townhouse, drinking wine and talking about the benefits of squid ink when using a no.4 medium bristled paintbrush on parchment paper, and if that wasn’t a PG level of Jane Austen romance he didn’t know what was.

  But he wasn’t going to push River in any direction. He wanted their first time to be special, memorable for all the right reasons, and if that meant waiting and settling for a discussion about paintbrushes and a quick kiss before they signed goodnight, then so be it.

  River finished her glass of wine first (a nice French red, which after the horror that was that evening’s rice wine, tasted like manna) and put her empty glass on the table. Cohen was about to offer her a refill when she turned back to the calligraphy set, picking up a bottle of deep blue ink filled with glitter and raising an eyebrow at him.

  He flushed. I wish you hadn’t seen that, he wrote.

  What is it? River scribbled back.

  Edible ink, he told her. I use it mainly for calligraphy work on a fondant base.

  Cohen hoped that would be enough for River, but when she read the word ‘fondant’ he saw a smile break across her face.

  Fondant? she scrawled. You mean as in icing? Like for a cake?

  And now Cohen blushed harder, because yes, that was exactly what he meant. River smiled, biting her lip a little in a way that made him nervously excited.

  I watch Bake-off, she told him. I like to take ideas from it for new flavours for the ice creamery. So, I know what fondant is, Cohen.

  He sighed. Okay, look. My secretary Michelle has a daughter. She’s six, he explained. She had a birthday and wanted a space-themed cake. My secretary couldn’t find a fondant topping anywhere that had the right colour of blue with glitter, so I made this one up for her. And then she couldn’t find a baker who could apply the ink correctly so—

  But now River held up her hand to stop him from writing any more. You mean you baked a six-year-old girl a space-themed birthday cake with a handcrafted fondant topping you calligraphed yourself?

  Cohen went as red as his wine, because yes, that was exactly what had happened. And if he felt soft and unmanly before, he felt doubly so now, realising that under his hard and jaded exterior lay the soul of a Jane Austen reading, calligraphy-loving bread and cake baker.

  Look, I like my secretary and her daughter and—

  He started to protest, but River pushed the pen from his hand, surprising him by wrapping her arms around his waist and kissing him softly. At first, he could hardly move, simply sitting there, enjoying the feel of her lips nipping at his, of her cheek cool against his flush one. But then
, when her tongue slid against his lips, ducking into his mouth and pressing against his teeth, he lost all control. He crushed her to him, becoming almost aggressive against her mouth, pure desire and want emitted with every desperate exhale. He started to shrug his shirt off, intent on moving this to his bedroom and feeling more of her skin against his, when she abruptly broke away, stopping their kiss and taking a step back.

  I want you to show me, she wrote.

  Show you what? he asked, desperate to put his mouth on hers again.

  This, she held up in one hand the bottle of edible ink, and in the other a brush. Show me how you do this.

  He frowned. I don’t have any fondant to hand. You can’t use paper with that ink either – it’s too porous. You need something soft, slightly warm. Otherwise it won’t work. I’m really sorry, I don’t have the right canvas for that ink today. But next time I’ll make sure—

  But River pressed the brush and ink into his hand anyway.

  He had to rub his eyes twice before he believed what she wrote in her notebook next.

  Cohen. I’ll be your canvas. Let me be your fondant.

  He stared at her, mouth hanging open, and she took advantage of the moment, kissing him quickly, pushing her tongue into his mouth and swiping it against his before she pulled away. And then, making sure he saw the clear intent in her eyes, she started to unbutton her dress.

  It was a tea dress, short sleeved, calf-length and nipped in at the waist. River bit on her lip as she slowly loosened the buttons from the top down, exposing the creamy expanse of her collarbones before the white of her bra came into view. Cohen inhaled sharply when she carried on, showing the dip between her breasts, which he longed to lick and kiss, before she stopped at her waist, just a flash of her stomach and belly button showing.

  His mouth went dry when she turned around, pulling the dress from both shoulders and letting it fall to her waist. She pushed her hair from her back to one side of her neck, tilting it up to light – an open invitation for him to begin. She looked over her shoulder at him, her hazel eyes soft and warm.