If he wasn’t already done for, if her eyes and smile and kindness and that incredible smell of sweetness that lingered near her hadn’t already caught him, what she did next sealed the deal for Cohen’s heart. Catching his eye, she bit down on one lip, as though lost in thought, as though considering him. Whatever she was asking him, whatever she wanted, Cohen decided his answer was always and forevermore going to be yes. But her contemplation was only momentary, because abruptly she grinned widely, before leaning forward and kissing him on the head, right over the bandage.
Cohen knew then that he was completely done for. Abruptly, he wanted to shower this woman in focaccia bread and cupcakes. Because for Cohen, post-divorce, a rise of emotion walked hand in hand with a sudden urge to bake. Forget perfume and flowers, Cohen knew now that the best gifts were homemade, warm and grown with yeast.
She stood up, disappearing back behind the counter to wash her hands, because this was clearly a hygienic ice creamery and who wanted blood in their Rum and Raisin waffle cone or Raspberry Ripple sundae? She then scribbled an entry into the first aid logbook, because a bumped head on a low-slung doorway counted as an ‘incident’ these days.
Forget incident. Cohen knew better. This was serendipity. This was kismet. This was fate.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked again, louder now.
But she didn’t turn, and nor did she answer him.
‘Forget it, Ford. She’s not for you,’ a voice called out to him. Turning in his chair, away from the woman in her yellow gingham, away from the dancing ribbons in her hair, he saw a wizened figure watching him from the doorway, her hand clutching a wooden cane.
Rushi de Luca. Cohen would have known her anywhere. Small and delicate, with pale skin and grey hair, she was as petite as he remembered, but also just as fierce. She was eyeing him with outright and very frank dislike, her eyes dark and suspicious, watching him watch the woman with distrust written all over her wrinkled face.
‘Hello Rushi,’ Cohen replied calmly. He reminded himself that he was no longer a child. That he was no longer the boy who, when his ice cream fell into the gutter, cried until Rushi replaced it with a new one. That he was no longer poor Cohen, whose wife left him for somebody else. ‘I’ve come to deliver your birthday present. My mother asked me to bring it while I was over here.’
‘It was my birthday three months ago.’ Rushi’s reply, dry and cutting, was instant. Her eyes narrowed further. ‘And you’ve been in London for nearly a year now.’
‘I’m sorry, I should’ve called earlier.’ He couldn’t help his eyes from flickering towards yellow gingham as the woman cleaned counters, her eyes occasionally looking up to meet his own.
‘Yes, I’ll bet you’re sorry,’ Rushi snapped. ‘But you won’t be sorry for long.’ She indicated to the woman with a wave of her hand. ‘Like I said: she’s not for you.’
‘Who says I’m even interested?’ Cohen, guilty and defensive all at once, shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not. I wasn’t even—’
‘—fèi-huà!’ Rushi slapped her hand against the door, her use of Chinese sudden and sharp. ‘I didn’t believe your father when he looked at your mother like that, and I don’t believe you. But she’s not for you, Ford. So, you keep your eyes and your hands to yourself.’
Ah. So, the old topic of his faithless father was once again rearing its ugly head.
Cohen sighed. ‘Rushi …’ he began, but she threw her hands up with a loud noise of exasperation.
‘Where’s this gift then, hmm?’
Cohen indicated to his bag. Rushi nodded, but she wasn’t even looking at him. She was looking at the woman, as though checking on her. But any concern in her eyes disappeared the moment she turned back to Cohen, who she looked at once more with waspish distaste.
‘Well,’ she snapped at him. ‘Stay for ten minutes. You can spare me ten minutes, hmm boy?’
Cohen smarted at her words. ‘No, not really,’ he said coolly. ‘In fact, I should be going, I have a meeting in—’
But Rushi didn’t pay him any heed. ‘What do you want then?’ She carried on, regardless, as though he hadn’t spoken at all. ‘Strawberry was always your flavour, wasn’t it, young Ford?’
At the word ‘strawberry’, Cohen’s stomach dropped. Ice ran down his spine, and he felt, once again, that stab of pain and guilt. He could almost hear his father’s voice, that familiar sneer of disdain, echoing across the ice creamery.
‘Strawberry? Pink ice cream? It’s for girls, Cohen.’
He stiffened. ‘I’m not a child any more, Rushi. I don’t eat ice cream.’
‘Ice cream?’ Rushi shook her head at him. ‘For shame, Ford. This is gelato, and the finest in London. So, what will it be? Come on, come on, it’s on the house. You’re Esther Sedler’s boy, after all.’
Cohen paused, considering Rushi’s words. Esther Sedler’s boy. Was he really? Had he ever truly been his mother’s child?
Rushi stared at him. ‘Well?’
‘Coffee. Black,’ Cohen replied, his words automatic and cold. Rushi looked at him with something akin to disgust. Disgust, mixed with a little pity.
‘Black coffee,’ she mused. ‘Hmm. Well, have a measure of syrup in it, if nothing else.’ She looked him up and down. ‘You look like you could use sweetening up.’
Almost involuntarily, his eyes flickered back to the woman in yellow gingham, but Rushi’s response was lightning quick.
‘Not her,’ she told him. ‘She’s not for you.’
Rushi joined him at the table, sinking into the wooden chair with a grateful sigh. ‘Alright then.’ She gave his arm a poke. ‘Give me this gift, then. The one your mother sent. The one that is so important you rushed it here without hesitation.’
Cohen dug into his bag, pulling out a wrapped parcel, trying not to feel the guilt Rushi was attempting to winnow out of him.
He was so tired of feeling guilty all the time.
‘I should’ve brought it sooner,’ he said again, but Rushi only shrugged.
‘You were a selfish child,’ she replied. ‘And now you are a selfish man. It doesn’t matter. Your father was the same. All about his own skin, he was.’
She looked up then, with something in her eyes that might have been sorrow, or regret, or merely a trick of the light. With Rushi, you could never tell.
‘I was sorry,’ she said abruptly, ‘to hear of his passing. He was your father, after all. A selfish one, it’s true, but your father all the same. And your mother loved him, even when everyone else told her she shouldn’t. They all said that your mother chose poorly, did you know that? They told her to choose again. To marry a more appropriate boy.’
‘What did you tell her?’ Cohen asked before he could stop the words from leaving his mouth.
Momentarily, guilt seemed to cross Rushi’s face. ‘I told her to follow her heart. That’s what I did with my Guido. Well, it worked out for me, but not so well for your mother, in the end.’ Rushi sighed. ‘But she loved your father anyway, and she carried on loving him even after he left. She spent a long time waiting for him to walk back through her door, you know. She probably still is, even though he’s now crossed a threshold from which he can never return.’
‘She’s married again now,’ Cohen admitted. ‘Trust me, she isn’t waiting any longer.’
‘I know, and good for her.’ Rushi nodded. ‘But you never get over your first love. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?’
Cohen looked down, suddenly struggling for words.
Rushi sighed again. ‘I hear your own marriage didn’t work out. What happened? Your mother was sketchy with the details when we spoke about it.’
A familiar dart of bitter anger hit Cohen, and he scowled. ‘The details don’t matter,’ he said. ‘She left. That’s all I need to know. It’s all anyone needs to know.’
He looked up to find Rushi staring at him. ‘What?’ he asked, instinctively defensive.
But Rushi only shrugged. ‘You know, your mother always told me
there was more to your father than what he showed to the world.’ She peered at Cohen intently, as though peeling away at the covers of his soul. ‘Will the world say the same about you though, young Ford? Hmm?’
Cohen looked down and swallowed hard.
‘I, uh ...’ He trailed off, his thoughts broken by the sudden presence of a woman, who stood beside them, looking at Rushi as though awaiting orders.
As she stood near him, Cohen felt something inside him melt a little. The stiff lines of his body, set by Rushi and thoughts of his father and self-recriminations, seemed to ebb away in the gentle tide of her presence. He smiled up at her and was immediately rewarded with a shy smile back. He didn’t try to hold down the feeling of triumph that swept through him, and he looked to Rushi, hoping she had witnessed this exchange between them.
But Rushi was looking at them both with a regretful, bittersweet expression.
‘I never introduced you,’ she said, indicating to the woman. ‘Cohen, this is my daughter, River. I adopted her when she was three years old.’
Cohen stopped to gape at Rushi, his mouth hanging open.
‘I didn’t know,’ he stuttered. ‘My mother didn’t tell me.’
Rushi sat back, her expression calm. ‘There’s no reason for you to have known. Guido and I adopted her years ago, while you were off doing your teenage sulk routine … oh yes, I know all about that, don’t think your mother didn’t tell me.’
Damn, Cohen thought. Damn.
The first woman he’d taken an interest in since Christine, and she was completely off-limits. He knew his mother would kill him if he did anything to offend Rushi, and while delivering a birthday gift a few months late was one thing, screwing around with a clearly beloved daughter was something else entirely.
Damn.
The woman – River, as he now knew – stood there watching while Cohen’s face fell and then stiffened. At his expression her own face dropped too, and she looked down at Rushi, her hands suddenly awakening in a flurry of movement.
Rushi frowned, her hands responding, while Cohen watched in amazement. They were arguing, he suddenly realised. But they were arguing without words.
They were arguing, Cohen realised, with their hands.
River threw up her hands, a gesture so like Rushi’s that Cohen sat back in amazement. She stomped off, and Rushi turned back to Cohen, clearly annoyed.
‘She likes you,’ Rushi told him. ‘She thinks I’m probably being too hard on you. She’s right, but I didn’t like her attitude.’
‘She’s deaf,’ Cohen whispered, still in shock and disbelief, and Rushi nodded.
‘Yes. She had meningitis as an infant. It destroyed her hearing.’
‘That’s awful,’ Cohen replied, but Rushi sat taller.
‘She’s alive,’ she spoke coolly. ‘It could’ve been much worse. But now you understand, of course, why you must keep away. Why she’s not for you.’
‘Because she’s your daughter?’
Rushi scowled. ‘No. Because she’s deaf. Because she can’t understand you, nor you her.’
‘But there’s always lip reading …’ Cohen started to protest, but Rushi shook her head.
‘Not all deaf people can lip read, Ford. River can follow lips a little, but not enough to communicate with you. She can hardly take your coffee order. She certainly can’t start a relationship with you.’ She suddenly frowned. ‘Not that anything like that was on your mind, I’m sure. You probably had less ... noble intentions.’
‘You don’t know that,’ Cohen said, but Rushi stared at him, her face hard.
‘I knew your father, and he wasn’t about noble intentions, let me tell you.’ Rushi leaned back, looking at Cohen keenly. ‘I know Ford men, and I don’t trust them.’
‘I’m not my father.’ Cohen’s voice was quiet. ‘And you don’t know me.’
For a moment they sat in silence. Finally, Rushi stood.
‘Keep away from my daughter, Ford. She’s beautiful, I know. And because she’s beautiful men have tried to take advantage of her. Her deafness ...’ Rushi, for a minute, looked lost for words. When she spoke again, her voice was harsh, a disapproving rasp. ‘Men have tried to exploit it. Don’t you do the same.’
‘But …’
‘No,’ Rushi interrupted firmly. ‘Keep away from her.’
Cohen swallowed hard, nodding slowly. He tried to forget River, tried to forget her smile, her eyes and the feel of her lips upon his skin. It was probably for the best, he told himself sternly. Ice cream and sweetness and women like River… they weren’t for a man like him. He didn’t deserve the good things in life. ‘Alright,’ he agreed, his voice low and regretful. ‘I’ll stay away.’
‘Good.’ Rushi gave him a curt nod. ‘Well, I’m going to take this upstairs,’ she picked up the gift. ‘It’s a little late for a birthday present, so tell your mother I’ll save it for Christmas. Wait, not Christmas …’ She paused, glancing at him. ‘When’s Hanukkah this year?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
Rushi stared at him. ‘You don’t know?’
He felt a shiver of discomfort go down his spine. ‘I don’t … follow the faith, these days.’
If Rushi was surprised, she kept it well hidden. ‘Well, I’m sure your mother just loves that. Your Uncle Israel, too.’ She paused. ‘He’s still living off the grid, is he?’
Cohen nodded. ‘Yeah.’
Rushi nodded. ‘Still Jewish, though?’
Cohen shrugged. ‘You talk about it like it’s actually a choice.’
Rushi shrugged right back. ‘Why not? You made it one, by your own account.’ She sighed. ‘I’d like to see Israel again, one of these days. After he had his hand blown off in Korea, everyone said he’d cracked, your mother included.’ Abruptly, Rushi grinned. ‘But I like cracked people. Cracks mean you can see all the interesting things people normally keep hidden underneath.’ She glanced out the window, taking in the heavy sleet falling to the ground. ‘You should stay for a while. Drink your black coffee and warm up a little. Your mother will never forgive me if I let her boy go out into all that cold without a hot drink in his belly.’
Suddenly, Cohen was determined to have Rushi think well of him. Even if only a little.
‘I’ll call again,’ he suggested. ‘I have a day free next Tuesday. I’ll call in and we can catch up.’
He tried not to think of River, of yellow gingham and rainbow ribbons. He cleared his mind of apple-like cheeks and a warm smile.
But Rushi shook her head. ‘Don’t. I told you already, she’s not for you. And there’s no point in your coming all this way to see me. It’s just as you said, you aren’t a child any more. I’m your mother’s friend, not yours.’
‘Oh.’
Abruptly, Rushi’s face softened. ‘Besides, I’m not even here on Tuesdays. That’s the day I teach at the Hanyu Institute over in the city.’
Cohen nodded.
‘Stay and have that coffee,’ Rushi told him. ‘And give your mother a hug from me when you next see her.’ Suddenly she stopped, spinning on her heel with a deftness that surprised him. ‘No, wait. On second thoughts, don’t do that. Just give her a hug, but don’t tell her it’s from me. She needs more hugs, that mother of yours. And I think one from you might make her year.’
He watched as she walked away. That’s it then, he thought bitterly. Just another miserable meeting in the miserable life of Cohen Ford.
He shouldn’t be surprised.
He shouldn’t feel bitter.
But he did.
He was still mulling silently, scowling at the table, when a cup of black coffee, dark and steaming, was pushed towards him. He looked up and straight into the meadow-like eyes of River. Green flecks seemed to move in a field of brown, and Cohen felt his breath catch in his throat.
She nudged the coffee towards him again, but more than that, she also pushed a pastel-pink cup, brimming with strawberry ice cream, into his hand.
He stared at it for a m
oment, a lump in his throat, before opening his mouth to protest, to tell River that he was too old for ice cream, too old for pastel-pink and too jaded for even the smallest of small pleasures. But he closed it just as suddenly, reminding himself that she couldn’t hear. That his protests were useless. That he couldn’t ever hope to explain to her why he would turn down her small gift.
And so, he simply looked once more into her lovely eyes and smiled.
She smiled back.
He left the coffee.
He ate the strawberry ice cream.
And he knew that next Tuesday, whatever Rushi might have told him, he was coming back here again.
Chapter Two
Apple
A few weeks after his father died, and just a few months after Christine left him for another man – one who was more ‘her type’, more of a ‘go-getter’ and just ‘better’ than Cohen, apparently – Cohen did something he’d been thinking about for years.
He hired a therapist.
Marilyn Berg came highly recommended, and her office was a heady mix of earthenware jugs and Moroccan-inspired lamps and pillows. When Cohen walked in, nervously shucking his shoes at her request, before settling his long legs awkwardly into the sitting lotus position, he cleared his throat once, and then again.
‘Your office is very ... eclectic,’ he told her.
She smiled vaguely, tossing her red hair, palms outstretched.
‘Don’t think of this as an office, Cohen,’ she chided, in a Southern accent that reminded him strongly of mint juleps, fried chicken and peach pie. ‘I really want you to believe that this is a safe space for your thoughts and feelings.’
‘You have a desk.’
She smiled at him again. ‘To some people, it might be a desk. But to others … it’s merely a storage chest for thoughts and feelings.’
Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery: A heart-warming Christmas romance full of surprises Page 2
