River’s hands lingered on her scarf around his neck, and she bit on her lip, looking up at him, the lights of London reflected in her eyes. She pulled on the ends of the scarf, dragging his head down towards hers, and suddenly she was kissing him, having caught him in the best kind of net.
He could think of no sweeter bondage as his tongue pressed gently against her lips, claiming entrance to her mouth. And he could think of no better jailer than this woman, as she returned and then deepened his kiss, panting gently, her hands tightening against the fabric in her hands.
There were stars above them, art behind them, while London lay gently at their feet. He tightened his hold on River, pulling her bottom lip between his teeth and sucking on it gently. The gasp she made was beautiful, and the twinkling lights of Trafalgar Square’s Christmas tree played gently upon her skin as Cohen stroked his finger down her cheek.
All thoughts of sunflowers were banished from his mind, his head wiped blank by a searching tongue, a warm mouth and two hands full of red gingham. If he wasn’t careful, if he didn’t stop this soon, he might have been tempted to take River here and then on the steps of the National Gallery, and damn anyone who got in their way, anyone who might have dared to suggest such an act would defile the artwork. Art was, after all, only another expression of passion, Cohen abruptly realised. Sunflowers, water lilies, forgotten kings or nude gods … they were all versions of love, in their own way.
But River pulled back, releasing her hold on the scarf around his neck, her breathing heavy. She licked her lips, and Cohen had to stop himself from reaching for her again. He watched as she dipped into the pocket of his coat, handing him her letter.
He turned to the second page.
Taste. It began, and his mind instantly wandered to all sorts of interesting thoughts. River’s kiss was sweet, her mouth like sugared almonds, and Cohen’s thoughts immediately travelled south, wondering if she was just as sweet, just as addictive, everywhere else.
He couldn’t wait to find out.
I read somewhere once that if you lose one sense, the others immediately improve. I’m not sure I believe that. Did I appreciate the art tonight more than you because I can’t hear? Were the colours brighter, the lines finer? Did I discern meanings within the paintings that the hearing world cannot find? I hope not. There seems so little joy in such thoughts.
But I do have an excellent palate, Cohen. And it’s not because I’m deaf. No, it’s because I’ve spent years mixing ice cream with my mama, creating flavours while other children played, tasting textures while the few friends I did have drifted away. I tried not to let that bring me down, you know. Mama always told me I didn’t need friends if I had her and a good gelato, and maybe she was right. She always said I didn’t need boys if I had a worthwhile profession, and maybe she was right there too.
I’m fairly certain she’s going to tell me I don’t need you if I have myself, but I’m not sure that’s true. Not any more. After all, what is mint without a chocolate chip? What is rum without a raisin? What am I, Cohen, if I don’t have you? I’ll always be myself, I know that, and I’m not unhappy with who I am.
But I have this feeling, like a tingle in my blood, that with you I could be so much more. That together, we might make the perfect flavour.
I’m taking you for dinner now, Cohen. Me and my kick-ass, deaf palate.
I hope you like it.
River’s hand reached for Cohen’s, but he was too quick for her. With lightning-fast reflexes, he hoisted River into the air, his arms holding tight to her hips as he pushed her against the gallery wall. This time he didn’t hold back, and his kiss was hard, almost brutal. It was a kiss born of passion, but also a kiss born of desire. And not just desire for her body, but a desire for her to always remember this moment. He wanted this kiss to sear itself into River’s skin, her memory, as well as her heart. He pressed himself against her, delighting in her warmth beneath him, in her gorgeous smell around him, in her mouth all over his.
The perfect flavour indeed.
It was a lost cause really, this dinner. Because Cohen already knew that wherever River took him, nothing would taste as good as this moment.
No. Nothing would ever taste as good as this kiss against a wall, red gingham around his neck, on a cold winter’s eve of a deep December’s Tuesday.
Chapter Eight
Rice Wine
Cohen had never been a man of faith.
His mother, of course, was proudly Jewish. But, as she was always quick to point out, she was the right kind of Jewish. The kind that went to temple and kept kosher and spoke nicely with the rabbi and practiced Teshuvah during the days of awe, while also occasionally binging on shrimp rolls and breaking fast on feast days and forgetting to light the Shabbat candles. Jewish, Esther would tell everyone but her rabbi, but not too Jewish.
Cohen had never understood his mother’s faith, or its haphazard application to his own existence. For while his body bore the mark of the Jewish faith, his soul had remained resolutely untouched by God. He’d attended temple without feeling and said prayers that meant nothing to him, merely reciting empty words from an apparently empty soul. He married Christine in a New York courthouse, a clinically faithless wedding that Esther called a knife to her heart, and during which she tore her dress while he said his vows. Christine merely raised an eyebrow at his mother’s ‘clumsiness’, but Cohen, who understood, grit his teeth at her overt sign of mourning.
‘Are you honestly going to sit Shivah during my honeymoon, Mother?’ he asked her testily, when it was all done.
‘One of us should,’ Esther replied tightly. ‘You’ve married a gentile. Now your faith dies with you.’
‘I have no faith,’ Cohen told her, his own temper frayed. ‘How can something which never existed die?’
‘You’ll see,’ Esther spat viciously. ‘One day God will find you and you’ll know. You’ll feel it. And then you’ll regret this marriage, mark my words.’
Well, in the end he didn’t need God to regret his marriage. A monthly hit to his bank account, the absence of his grandmother’s ring and a home devoid of everything but a bread maker took care of that particular emotion. Regret, Cohen knew, was something he could do on his own. In his world, self-hate and recriminations were par for the course.
And he didn’t need a helping of religious guilt to add to that misery.
So, when River led him from the National Gallery to Leicester Square, turning off into Gerrard Street and then up a dingy looking flight of stairs, Cohen almost laughed. Because this was Chinatown, and Chinese food was indelibly linked in his mind with Christmas and Easter and all the other gentile holidays he wasn’t supposed to celebrate. River looked at the smile on his face with questioning eyes, and he grinned back, reaching for his notepad to scribble an explanation for her.
My mother is Jewish, he wrote. And Chinese, like brisket and chopped liver, is a food of her people.
River grinned, reaching for the notepad and writing her own reply.
My mother is Chinese, she told him. This is the food of her people too.
A waiter soon appeared and, on seeing River, immediately broke into a wide smile, reaching over to kiss her on the cheek. When he stepped back, he dropped his arms from her shoulders and, still smiling, began to sign at her, his hands moving in a way that had become familiar, though was still largely incomprehensible, to Cohen. River replied to him, pointing to Cohen. I’m on a date, her hands must have said, because the waiter immediately glanced over at him, looking Cohen up and down with an open suspicion that instantly made him feel apprehensive. Apprehensive but also irrationally guilty; just how he always felt when at passport control, when walking through security barriers or during phone calls with his mother.
But he refused to be cowed, standing taller even while his ears flushed, trying to look like the truth he already knew in his heart: that he belonged next to this woman and was worthy of a place by her side.
The waiter, suitably chasti
sed by Cohen’s refusal to be intimidated, backed away. Instead, he turned his attention back to River, gesturing for her to follow him up yet another flight of stairs, just as dingy, just as badly lit, but also filled with the promising aroma of garlic, onion and seared meat. Still, Cohen lagged, his steps heavy and uncertain, everything feeling out-of-place and yet all too familiar at once.
Just like home, he thought to himself bitterly.
But River must have felt his hesitation, because on the landing she turned, her hazel eyes wide, a hand reaching out to brush his brow in concern. Cohen caught her hand in his, turning it over to kiss the palm, before holding it to his cheek.
He sighed, closing his eyes momentarily and surrendering to the comfort River’s presence brought to him. Her hand was warm and soft and felt like heaven against him, and for a minute they stood, locked in a private moment of companionship, the smell of rice and garlic hanging heavy in the air. It was but a brief exchange of skin, but still Cohen’s heart beat just as quickly as it had during their kiss earlier.
This woman will be the death of me, he thought suddenly, a wry smile crossing his face. And quite frankly, he could think of no better way to die. In fact, forget ‘adversity is the parent of virtue’ and ‘a new voyage will lead to untold memories’ and all the other random, clichéd and misleading aphorisms found within fortune cookies. When he cracked open his cookie later tonight, all he wanted was for his fortune to read: ‘River will be your death’.
He’d have it dipped in gold, framed and hung in pride of place on his walls.
The top floor of the restaurant was full, and it didn’t take long for Cohen to realise that he and River were the only non-Chinese people there. The waiter seated them in the corner before pushing his notepad towards River, who scribbled upon it a slew of Chinese characters.
Cohen sat back, amazed, watching her with open-mouthed shock. Of course, he knew that Rushi was Chinese, but it had never occurred to him that she might have taught her deaf adopted daughter not only how to read and write English, but also how to read and write her own mother-tongue as well. But clearly she had, because River’s marks on the paper were quick and confident and easily understood by their waiter, who smiled and nodded as he read her words. He scribbled something back, handing the paper to River who laughed before taking up the pen again.
Cohen stared, suddenly not only amazed but also now incredibly turned on. River, he realised, was not only sexy, witty and caring, but also so damnably clever that it put half the management at Roberts-Canning LLC to shame. Cohen breathed hard, watching River’s hands grip her pen. Her fingers were long, lean and taut as she made easy strokes on the notepad, her tongue captured between her teeth while she thought between words. Cohen could hardly move, remembering the feel of her tongue in his mouth as she kissed him, hot and firm and probing. Abruptly, he straightened, realising he needed to pull the emergency brake on this particular train of thought before he lost all control in the darkened corner of The Shanghai Dragon.
The waiter left and River wrote something on her own notepad. She pushed a piece of paper over to Cohen to read.
So, this is my favourite Chinese restaurant in London, she told him. It’s on three levels; the bottom two floors are used for the tourists and the English. But this floor is what we call ‘off-menu’ and used for the locals. It’s authentic Chinese food, like you might get in China, but it’s also regional Chinese, because this chef is from Zhejiang in Eastern China. I’ve ordered one of the set menus, which I hope you’ll like. It’s vegetarian though, because I know you’re kosher.
Cohen paused. He reached for the pen, uncertain of how to reply. But this was River, and he couldn’t be anything other than completely honest with her.
I’m not kosher, he wrote down. My mother is the Jewish one.
River’s response was quick. But I thought Judaism was matrilineal?
It is. But I choose not to be. Suddenly he frowned, an idea springing to mind. Do you have a faith?
River grinned as she wrote. I follow the gods of good ice cream, good fortune and smiling children.
Cohen returned her smile. And how is that working out for you?
Well, I survived meningitis, I make amazing ice cream and I met you so pretty well so far, I’d say.
At that, Cohen’s grin got wider. In fact, it felt so permanent, he wasn’t certain he’d ever need to frown again. He sat, smiling like a Cheshire cat, until the waiter sauntered over to them, clutching a bottle of wine he unscrewed before pouring liberally into both of their glasses.
At which point, Cohen’s face fell so sharply he was certain his jaw hit the floor.
Because the wine … the wine was truly awful.
Horribly, terribly and offensively awful.
It was harsh against his tongue, while also – inexplicably and confusingly – being overwhelmingly sweet. It was so vile that if this had been the States, he’d have had the bottle sent back to the kitchen, the maker reported to the FDA and every vat ever made completely destroyed. But River smiled at him as she sipped her drink, and Cohen, unwilling to hurt her feelings – because she chose this God awful bottle after all – smiled back, drinking slowly, refusing to complain and ruin what had, so far, been the best night of his life. But God almighty, what was in this stuff? After just one glass he felt slightly fuzzy-headed, the soft lines of River’s body blurring gently before him. His cheeks felt warm and he reached out for her, stroking the soft skin of her shoulder until goosebumps prickled along both her skin and his.
Rice wine, River scribbled on her notepad, before showing him the words with her hands. Rice was two movements just before the mouth, River’s fingers curved into a claw – though it was the sexiest claw Cohen had ever seen, and please God, could she sink hers into him a little further? Before he could beg her though, she showed him the sign for wine. Wine was different, a movement to the right of the mouth, a swirl of the fingers, which after the brutal movement for rice seemed soft and almost delicate. It was an entrancing sight, making Cohen’s blood run hot in a way entirely inappropriate way for the dining room of The Shanghai Dragon, right here in front of a cheap print of the Forbidden City and a sketch of the Great Wall of China.
He realised he’d never be able to think of China innocently again.
Cohen swallowed hard, restraining himself from pouncing on River’s fingers, keeping his lust in check by copying the movement for rice wine until River nodded with satisfaction. Rice wine, Cohen signed, again and again, until the waiter, passing a near table, saw him and smiled, giving him a thumbs up.
‘Very good, sir.’ He nodded, and with a sinking feeling, Cohen realised he’d just ordered another bottle of this sickly monstrosity. He’d have to drink it too, or risk looking like an idiot in front of River.
But River’s smile was nearly blinding.
Wow, you really like the wine? she scribbled down. I’m surprised, to be honest, as it’s a bit of a strange flavour. But it’s a tradition from Mama’s province in China to drink a glass of Shaoxing before a meal. Normally just the one though … I was going to order a bottle of French Pinot to drink when we’d finished. If you’re enjoying this though, I’m happy to cancel that order.
Cohen reached for the pen, nearly tipping over the table in his eagerness to write down his thoughts.
No, don’t cancel the Pinot, he wrote frantically, before just as frantically searching for an excuse not to drink the second bottle of rice wine he’d inadvertently ordered. Actually, I ordered the rice wine to send to my mother and her wife as a Hanukkah gift. My mother and your mother are such good friends … I think my mother will appreciate a taste of her culture.
River raised her eyebrows, gesturing for the pen. That’s so thoughtful, she wrote. My mama said you didn’t get along with your mother. I’m so pleased to learn that she’s mistaken.
Cohen frowned, wanting to be honest with her. Look, don’t get me wrong, we have a … strained relationship. It’s not ideal. My mother is a good w
oman, but she isn’t the best mom. She was always so busy when I was growing up … sometimes I went months without seeing her. She tries hard – harder than me, these days – but sometimes I think it’s too late for us. Some people just shouldn’t be parents, I guess.
But on reading his words River frowned, reaching for the pen. But you love her, she wrote. You can see it in your face when you think about her.
Cohen nodded, his body awkwardly stiff, as it always was when he thought about Esther. River sighed, reaching for the pen again.
Look, you want to talk about people who shouldn’t be parents? Think about mine, the ones who abandoned me in the paediatric ICU when I was two years old and sick with meningitis. I woke up and they were just … gone.
You think about them often? Cohen asked, genuinely curious.
River paused, her eyes suddenly darkening, her mouth furrowing softly. Sometimes. Sometimes I wonder why they did it. Sometimes I wonder if they’d ever loved me at all, to abandon me like that. She paused again. It was Christmas Eve when they left me, you know. I would have woken up on Christmas morning to find my hearing gone and my parents gone. She smiled ruefully. Silent night indeed, hey?
Cohen took a deep breath, reaching over to River and capturing her hand between his own. Her hand looked so little, hidden in the palms of his, and his heart bled for the little girl who’d woken in a hospital, no doubt scared to death, only to find her parents gone. He withdrew one hand to write down the only words he could in that moment.
I’m so sorry.
River smiled, using her free hand to reply.
Then you’re already better than them. Send your mother the wine, Cohen. She’ll appreciate it.
They were interrupted by the arrival of plates and plates of food.
Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery: A heart-warming Christmas romance full of surprises Page 10
