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

by Sharon Ibbotson

  ‘Oh, just have one,’ Christine wheedled, a slight frown suddenly marring her contoured beauty. ‘You know how I hate to drink alone. Besides, it’s nearly Christmas.’

  ‘I’m Jewish.’

  But Christine laughed. ‘No, you’re not. Not really.’

  He stared at her, his face hard, and he saw her eyes flash nervously. ‘Well,’ she gave a high, nervous laugh. ‘It’s nearly … what, Yom Kippur?’

  ‘Hanukkah,’ Cohen muttered.

  Christine smiled. ‘So, Hanukkah then. Have a drink to celebrate that. I’ll have one too.’

  Cohen acquiesced with a slight nod of the head, allowing the waiter to pour him a glass after he’d filled Christine’s.

  ‘How are you Cohen?’ Christine then asked, all smoky eyes, plump lips and fluttering lashes.

  Cohen felt a dart of disgust, followed by a dash of unease.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And how has Paris been?’

  ‘London,’ he corrected her.

  She laughed again, a high-pitched and utterly false sound that grated on his nerves.

  ‘London. Of course, I knew that,’ Christine simpered. ‘So, London. How has it been?’

  Cohen couldn’t help the smile that almost crossed his face. A smile of pure contentment, a smile of sheer pleasure. But also a telling smile, when he didn’t want to tell this woman anything. So, he crushed it down, nodding benignly. ‘Good, it’s been good.’

  But Christine must have seen his happiness, because her lined eyes narrowed and her lips thinned with displeasure.

  ‘You want your ring back.’ She almost pouted. ‘I can only assume that there’s somebody else waiting in the wings to replace me?’

  Cohen frowned. River would never be ‘waiting in the wings’ for him. For Cohen, River would always be centre stage. The highlight of the tragi-comedy that had previously been his life.

  ‘It’s not really my ring,’ he told Christine simply. ‘And I’m not here to discuss my personal life with you.’

  Christine, Cohen knew, was not the kind of woman who liked coming second place to anything or anyone. She had a jealous, competitive streak which, if it weren’t so easily placated, would be absolutely terrifying.

  So, she laid her cards on the table along with a hand on Cohen’s thigh.

  ‘We were always so good together, you and I,’ she simpered. She lightly kneaded the tense flesh of his upper leg, her hands firm and possessive. ‘We could be good together again, if you wanted us to be.’

  Cohen flinched, shifting so that her bony fingers were nowhere near his body.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he told her firmly. He didn’t want her hands anywhere near him. Not now that he’d been touched by River.

  ‘I mean it, Cohen.’ Christine carried on gamely. ‘We could leave here, go back to your place and make love like we used to. Don’t you remember? Like the early days?’

  Cohen remembered. He recalled a cool and unresponsive woman in his bed, mechanical in her actions and attentions. He recalled a woman grateful when the act was done with, rolling away from him and quickly wiping his kisses from her skin. Sex with Christine had never been ‘making love’, he knew that now.

  Abruptly, Cohen recalled a fleeting image of River in his bed, warm, soft and so open to his embrace. She’d kissed him and held him and sighed against his skin, her breath a gentle heat, the lingering smell of sugar in the air.

  That, Cohen knew, had been making love.

  ‘No thanks,’ he told Christine, pushing his wine away.

  ‘But Cohen—’

  ‘—Christine, I just want my grandmother’s ring back and to get the hell out of here. You left me for someone else, remember? You took me to court for all I was worth too, in case you’ve forgotten?’

  Christine leaned back, considering him. Her cheekbones were high, her shoulder blades sharp, and Cohen shuddered, wondering when denial had become sexy. This was a woman who said no to carbs, no to gluten, no to dairy and, tonight being the glaring exception, no to sex. Christine was a reigning queen of self-denial, depriving herself of all that was glorious in life so that she could chase some impossible standard of beauty. Cohen thought of River, of ice cream on her lips and gentle curves on her hips, and wanted to tell Christine to get a grip.

  Because Cohen was tired of self-denial, of lives half-lived and of people constantly saying ‘no’.

  He wanted to live in a world where people ate and enjoyed ice cream. A world where people tried new things. A world where people said ‘yes’.

  ‘That was just a rocky patch,’ Christine replied easily. ‘All marriages have rocky patches, Cohen.’

  Cohen sat back. ‘Well, you let our “rocky patch” end in a dead-end quarry. You tunnelled us into a wall, and I’m done with you.’

  ‘So, there is someone else,’ Christine reflected, clearly not having listened to a word he’d said.

  ‘Like I said, I’m not prepared to discuss my personal life with you. Now, if you’ll hand over the ring, please. I’d like to get going.’

  But Christine only stared at him, her eyes cruel. ‘What’s she like?’

  Cohen didn’t reply.

  ‘She must be quite something,’ Christine deliberated. ‘For you to be considering marriage already. A real firebrand in the sack, I suppose. You always were so easily manipulated in that department, Cohen.’

  Cohen stood, in an absolute fury. ‘The ring,’ he said, his voice black with rage.

  Christine handed it over. It was a reassuring weight in his hand, but Cohen refused to thank her. This was merely a transaction, after all. There was no kindness here on her part.

  He went to leave, but Christine put a stilling hand on his arm. It was the touch of a snake, and Cohen recoiled.

  ‘You know how good I can be,’ she said suggestively. ‘I promise I’ll be the perfect wife this time, Cohen. I’ll be the perfect hostess, the perfect bed-mate and the perfect woman. Everything you ever wanted, Cohen.’

  Cohen looked at her with disgust. ‘I don’t want perfect. I never wanted perfect.’

  ‘What do you want then?’ Christine asked, her face sharp.

  ‘Just love.’

  Now, Christine looked at him with disgust.

  ‘You never wanted love before,’ she said with a sneer. ‘You only wanted a good body and a pretty decoration to wear on your arm. What happened to you in London?’

  Cohen looked at her one more time, knowing it would be the last time he would ever lay eyes on her.

  ‘I grew up,’ he told her simply.

  He turned away, relief singing through him.

  And he didn’t leave money for the wine.

  Cohen’s last stop was a faded brownstone. He knocked once, then twice, then a third time.

  Perhaps she wasn’t home.

  Perhaps he should have called first.

  Perhaps this was a bad idea.

  But the door swung open, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down at his feet.

  ‘Cohen.’

  There was no disappointment there, but then neither was there love or affection.

  Cohen looked up.

  ‘Hello, Mother. Happy Hanukkah.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Challah

  When Esther opened the door to let Cohen into her home, her hands were shaking slightly. Cohen pretended he didn’t notice.

  When she handed him a cup of hot chocolate – because apparently, he was thirteen again and Esther was still worried about caffeine stunting his growth – his hands were shaking slightly.

  But Esther pretended she didn’t notice.

  They sat in the kitchen, Cohen’s six-foot frame dwarfing the tiny chair he’d been ushered into. He dwarfed his mother now too; even though he was sitting and she standing, he was still a head taller than her. Cohen stared at her, at the grey-brown of her hair, the crow’s feet around her eyes and the papery thinness of her hands. He stared at her, and for the first time, he didn’
t see the battle-axe mother of his youth, but a woman drifting from middle into old age. He saw a woman with disappointment written into the lines of her face, but it was a disappointment tempered by love. Because, like Billy, his mother had smile lines. Like Billy, there was an echo of happiness permanently written into her features.

  And Cohen was glad. Glad that there had been people to make his mother smile over her lifetime, even when he and Jim, the people who should have made her smile the most, failed in their task.

  He was glad his mother was happy, and for once, he felt this without bitterness, anger or a lingering sense of resentment. He didn’t begrudge his mother her happiness, not now when he’d finally had a taste of his own.

  His hands curled around the mug in his hand and he sipped at his drink, Esther watching him all the while.

  ‘It’s good, thank you,’ he said after a minute, and Esther opened her mouth, clearly surprised.

  But she only nodded. ‘You’re welcome,’ she told him, sipping her own drink.

  For five minutes they sat in awkward silence. It was only when Cohen went to drink again and found his mug empty that he finally spoke.

  ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here,’ he said quietly.

  But Esther shook her head. ‘I’m surprised you’re here,’ she told him. ‘Normally I have to repeatedly call your office or Michelle and guilt you into seeing me. So yes, I’m surprised.’ She stopped to give him a half-smile. ‘But in my mind, there’s no question of why, Cohen. You know you can come here anytime you like, for any reason. My door is always unlocked for you. I’m happy you chose to open it today. I really am. It’s the best Hanukkah gift I could ever get. And so no, I’m not wondering why you’re here.’ She looked at him pointedly, her eyes wet. ‘I’m simply glad that you are.’

  Cohen looked down and swallowed hard.

  ‘I have something for you,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a small box and pushed it across the table.

  Esther picked it up gingerly. ‘Cohen? What is this? A gift?’ Her smile was wider now, her eyes warm when she looked at him. And damn, Cohen thought, but when was the last time he’d given his mother a birthday present? Or a Mother’s Day gift? There were eight days of Hanukkah … how many of those had he ever marked for her with a gift? He had a horrible, sneaking suspicion it was the baskets of focaccia he sent in his post-Christine baking period. And they weren’t even presents, not really. They were simply physical manifestations of his own misery. Cries for help in the form of wheat, starch and gluten.

  ‘No, not a gift, not really ...’ he began, drifting off when he saw his mother begin to open the box.

  ‘Cohen,’ she breathed. She brought a hand to her mouth before taking a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Oh, Cohen,’ she said again, and now ... now there were tears on her face. Tears that ran, unrestricted, down the thin lines of her cheeks. Cheeks Cohen remembered gripping as an infant as he pulled his mother close, showering her face with kisses. He recalled the smell of Esther’s hair when she nuzzled his toddler neck, just as he could remember – with a blinding clarity – the feel of her arms around his body, supporting his baby weight.

  When was the last time he’d kissed his mother? Cohen could not remember. On impulse he reached forward to rub the tears from Esther’s skin. He kissed one of her cheeks and then the other, before sitting back.

  Esther stared at him, clutching the box in her hand. His grandmother’s ring shone in the early evening light, and he gestured to it.

  ‘I got it back earlier today,’ he explained. ‘I’m sorry I ever gave it to ...’ he paused. He didn’t even want to mention Christine’s name in his mother’s presence. ‘I suppose it doesn’t even matter,’ he finally admitted. ‘But for what it’s worth, I am sorry.’

  Esther was no longer crying, though tears still ran occasionally from her eyes. ‘Cohen,’ she said quietly, her voice thick with tears and effort. ‘You didn’t have to do this.’

  ‘I did,’ he replied firmly.

  Esther pulled the ring from the box, admiring it in the palm of her hand. ‘You know my mother died when I was just a baby,’ she told him. ‘I never even saw her wear this ring. I wish I had. I wish I’d seen this ring on her finger. Although, what I think I’m really saying is that I wish I’d seen her. Even if only just once. Just for a minute. All your Uncle Israel and I ever had were pictures, shown to us by disinterested nannies. Our father wasn’t keen on talking about her. Didn’t even like to hear her name mentioned. Strange, I’m not angry at him for that. In the long list of things I hated my father for, that was never one of them.’ Esther looked up at Cohen. ‘I understand grief, you see. I hated my father, but not for loving my mother.’ She stopped, looking at the ring again. ‘When did you start hating me, Cohen?’

  Cohen felt a chill, even though the air in his mother’s home was warm and scented with the challah she’d been baking.

  ‘I don’t hate you, Mother. I’ve never hated you.’

  ‘It’s felt like it,’ Esther admitted. ‘When you stopped returning my phone calls. When you made excuses not to see me. When you left the Sedler Foundation for Roberts-Canning, knowing how I felt about them. When you married Christine. When you disappeared off to London, without even leaving a message to let me know. Michelle told me, did you know that? One afternoon I called to speak with you, and she told me you’d been in London for three weeks. Three weeks, Cohen. For three weeks you’d been four thousand miles away and you never even told me.’

  ‘That ...’ Cohen’s throat was dry. ‘That was never about hating you. That was about ...’

  And then he stopped. Because his mother was sitting there, her red-rimmed eyes wide, actually listening to him.

  ‘What was it about?’ Esther pressed him.

  ‘It was ... It was about being angry at you. At you, and at ... and at ... at Dad,’ and now Cohen’s voice was really thick, choked with his own tears. Because he hadn’t said the word ‘dad’ in a long time. Not since the day Jim had walked away and decided not to be one any more.

  Esther sat back, her face white at his words. ‘I always provided for you, even after he left,’ she said.

  ‘You provided for me,’ Cohen agreed. ‘But it didn’t always feel like you loved me. And I so so wanted you to love me, Mother. I still do.’

  ‘Cohen,’ Esther spluttered, his name pushed out through her tears. ‘I’ve always loved you. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. How could you doubt that?’

  ‘You were just ... just not there, sometimes, you know?’ Cohen ran a hand through his hair. ‘I felt like an inconvenience to you. Like that summer you went to Guatemala, and left me with Uncle Israel? You probably don’t remember ... I was supposed to go stay with ... but he never came for me and so—’

  ‘—I remember,’ Esther interrupted him softly. ‘I remember. Jim was supposed to have you that summer. He’d spent all spring telling me about all the grand adventures he was going to take you on. Fishing. Hunting. A road trip through the desert. Camping. All the things fathers are supposed to do with their sons. He spoke with such enthusiasm ... I really thought for once he might come through ...’ Esther shuddered. ‘But he never turned up to collect you. I remember, Cohen. Of course I do. And I’m so sorry for that, I really am.’

  ‘You spent the entire time at the airport telling Uncle Israel how sorry you were for me. Apologising for the inconvenience of my existence.’

  Esther blanched as though Cohen had struck her. And maybe he had, in a way. But she shook her head.

  ‘Oh Cohen, I wasn’t—I didn’t mean that ... you couldn’t possibly have believed that I meant ...’ Esther paused. ‘Oh.’ She exhaled abruptly, realisation dawning on her face. ‘But you did think that, didn’t you? Cohen, I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry. I never meant for you to think that. I was never sorry for you, or about you. You were never an inconvenience to me. Anything but. Of everything that happened between me and your father ... you were the best thing about it. And
I would marry that wastrel again, a thousand times over, if it meant I got to be your mother a thousand times over. Tell me you understand that?’ Esther asked desperately. She reached forward, taking one of Cohen’s hands in her own.

  Cohen looked at where their hands were joined. Esther’s fingers were so slim, tiny in the palm of his hand. It seemed impossible that this woman once held him in her arms.

  But she had. Many times over.

  ‘Yes,’ Cohen said, nodding slowly. ‘Yes. I understand.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’ Esther asked, squeezing his fingers. ‘Tell me again, Cohen. I can’t bear for us to be like ... to be like we’ve been this last decade. I want my baby boy back, Cohen. I want you to be my baby again, like you used to be.’

  ‘I understand, Mother. I do.’ Cohen returned the squeeze, a light pressure against Esther’s fingers. ‘But I can’t be your baby again. We can’t go back to that.’

  Not yet, he thought. His relationship with his mother had, for too long, been a wound allowed to fester. This conversation was a compress of a bandage long overdue but it would take time, Cohen realised, for the wound to fully heal. He hoped it would.

  Esther looked stricken at his words, and so Cohen cleared his throat. ‘But I can be your son, Mother. And you can be my mother. And we can see where things go from there.’

  ‘You want us to be ... friends?’ Esther asked, almost hopefully.

  Cohen suddenly recalled Rushi and her querying words. Rushi, who had been a parent to River but never a friend. And he smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Let’s try being friends, as well as mother and son. I think I’d like that.’

  And now Esther smiled. ‘Friends, yes. Alright then.’

  Cohen smiled back. ‘I think a friend would have offered another drink by now,’ he hinted. ‘I drink my coffee black.’

  ‘But caffeine—’ Esther began, before Cohen cut her off with a laugh.

  ‘Mother, I’m six-foot-two. Do you really still think caffeine will impact on my height? God, I almost hope it does. I already struggle to find shoes and shirts that fit.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t get your height from me,’ Esther told him, getting up to turn on her coffee machine.