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

by Sharon Ibbotson

  For a moment, Jim’s name was a lingering presence in the room, and they both fell silent.

  ‘I miss him,’ Cohen admitted quietly, his words cutting into the void.

  ‘Yes. So do I, sometimes,’ Esther replied with a sigh.

  ‘I wish I’d gone to him,’ Cohen added, his voice firm. ‘I wish to God I hadn’t let him die in that hospice, all alone.’

  Esther’s face softened, her eyes suddenly filling with tears once more. She reached out, taking Cohen’s hand. ‘Oh, baby, he didn’t die alone.’

  Cohen looked up sharply. ‘What?’

  ‘Your father didn’t die alone, baby. I was there. I went to him. I sat with him. I was there when he died.’

  Cohen stared at her. ‘But you never said anything ...’

  Esther shrugged, using her free hand to brush away her tears. ‘You always got so angry when he was mentioned ... and you didn’t even go to the funeral ... it just seemed easier to brush it all under the carpet, you know?’

  Cohen nodded. ‘How was he? In the ... at the end?’

  Esther cleared her throat, squeezing Cohen’s fingers, before moving to the coffee machine to start a steady rush of hot water. She clearly didn’t want to talk about this.

  ‘Please, Mother. I have to know,’ Cohen pressed her.

  Esther nodded, a reluctant but resigned movement. ‘He was tired mostly,’ she began. ‘He wanted to talk about the old days. Israel came to see him too, they had a laugh together.’ She looked at him pointedly. ‘He wanted to talk about you, when he was lucid. Wanted to talk about you when you were a baby. But when he was out of it on the drugs they gave him ...’ Esther bit her lip. ‘He mainly spoke nonsense. He was in such pain by the end. He couldn’t bear for anyone to touch him. Every press on his skin hurt him.’

  Cohen shuddered.

  Esther suddenly gave an impish smile. ‘But he wasn’t in such pain that he didn’t try and steal a few kisses from me,’ she admitted. ‘He was always trying to steal kisses from me. He was such a scoundrel, your father. A complete ganef, from beginning to end.’

  ‘I’m glad you were there,’ Cohen told her.

  ‘It was the right place for me to be. He was a good man, you know. A good man. Just not a very good husband. Or, in the end, a very good father. Well.’ Esther handed Cohen a mug of black coffee. ‘Well, we all have our strengths and weaknesses. He just wasn’t meant to be a family man.’

  Esther sat back at the table, one hand idly going to her mother’s ring. She gave a deep sigh, before pushing it towards Cohen.

  ‘You should keep this,’ she told him.

  ‘I have no use for it,’ Cohen replied. ‘When I get married again, I’m going to give my intended a ring of her own. I don’t want her to have any legacies of heartbreak or sadness on her finger.’

  He meant that. When he married River, he wanted her to wear a ring from him that was – and would only ever be – hers alone.

  ‘What should I do with this then?’ Esther put the ring back in the box.

  For once, Cohen didn’t miss a beat. ‘Save it for a granddaughter,’ he suggested, sipping at his coffee.

  Esther almost glared at him. ‘Don’t tease me like that,’ she chided.

  ‘I mean it, Mother,’ he told her, his voice serious. ‘I’m thinking about getting married again.’

  Esther stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m thinking about getting married again. Soon, I hope. Well, as soon as we can arrange—’

  ‘—you’re getting married. Again?’ Esther repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ Cohen said slowly. ‘I’m thinking about getting married. Again.’

  ‘Is she Jewish?’

  Cohen grimaced but bit his tongue. Because he knew that for all Esther might now try to be his friend, in some respects she would always be his mother. His over-bearing, Jewish mother.

  But he loved her for it.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  Esther suppressed a frown. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She lives in London. She’s twenty-six and deaf.’

  Esther’s mouth fell unattractively open. She was silent for a full minute while Cohen calmly drank his coffee.

  ‘Mother?’ he finally asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Esther began slowly. ‘I don’t know what to do with any of that information, Cohen. It’s the first day of Hanukkah. The first day of Hanukkah and you’re sitting there, drinking your black coffee and casually telling me you’re thinking about getting married again? And to a gentile woman who lives in London? Are you kidding me, Cohen?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘And this twenty-six-year old is not only British but deaf?’

  Cohen nodded again.

  Esther breathed out. ‘I didn’t know you knew sign language.’

  ‘I don’t. But I’m learning.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice.’ Esther’s voice was unnervingly tight. ‘Have you gone crazy, Cohen? Oy vey, but you can’t do this. You can’t marry a woman who isn’t American; a woman you can’t even talk to. A woman who isn’t even Jewish.’

  ‘Yes, I can,’ Cohen replied patiently.

  ‘You don’t even know sign language, Cohen,’ Esther carried on firmly. ‘This is a bad idea. Everything about this is a bad idea.’

  ‘This is the best idea I’ve ever had. And I told you, I’m learning BSL.’

  As if to prove his point, he gestured to his cup. Coffee, he signed.

  Esther, to her credit, didn’t roll her eyes. ‘You know I can’t approve of this ... this marriage, Cohen. The whole concept is ridiculous.’

  Cohen shrugged. ‘I don’t need your approval, mother. What I would like is your blessing, though.’

  ‘My blessing? She’s not even Jewish,’ Esther nearly whined.

  ‘No, she’s not. But honestly, just spend five minutes in her presence. Then you’ll understand. I promise you that, mother.’

  Esther snorted. ‘I don’t speak sign language, Cohen. That will be a long five minutes.’

  ‘Come to London with me, Mother. Bring Marilyn. I’m only asking for five minutes.’

  Esther sat back and considered his words. He could almost see the cogs moving in her brain as she thought.

  ‘Alright,’ she finally agreed. ‘I’ll come to London and meet this ... this woman of yours.’

  ‘River,’ Cohen corrected her. ‘Not woman ... River.’

  ‘River, fine. But five minutes is all I’m giving her. And if after five minutes I still don’t understand, I want you to promise that you’ll sit down with me and talk this through before you rush into any drastic decisions.’

  Cohen nodded. It was an easy promise to make, after all. No one who spent five minutes in a room with River could fail to be charmed by her.

  It only took him around thirty seconds to fall in love with her, after all.

  ‘You know, my old friend Rushi de Luca’s adopted daughter is deaf,’ Esther mused suddenly. ‘You remember her? The one who owns the ice cream place in London? Maybe I’ll give her a call. She could probably teach me a few signs in BSL – because I am going to try with this, Cohen. I promise to try.’

  Cohen stared at his mother, who clearly hadn’t figured everything out just yet.

  ‘Mother …’

  ‘Mmm.’ Esther reached for her diary and a pen, thumbing through the book absently. ‘Yes, here’s Rushi’s number.’ Her eyes scanned over the entry. ‘Her daughter’s name is River and —’ Suddenly, Esther looked up. ‘Oy gevalt,’ she whispered, and Cohen grinned.

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded, answering her unspoken question.

  Both the pen and diary fell from Esther’s hand with a clatter.

  ‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘Yes, Mother. I’m going to ask Rushi de Luca’s daughter to marry me.’

  Cohen went into the office early the next morning. He was tired, still suffering slightly from jet-lag, as well as the fact that his mother and Marilyn kept him up late the previous evening, asking him to recount – again and again – his
romance with River before lighting the hanukiah candle. The more Esther heard the softer her face had become, and when he’d finally gone home for the night – because he refused to sleep in his mother’s guest room like an errant teenage boy – she’d kissed him very tenderly.

  He loaded up his computer and logged into the mainframe. He went into the company access files, looking for a BSL interpreter.

  Five minutes later, he stormed into Tarquin Fowler’s office.

  ‘You speak BSL,’ he said, making it sound almost like an accusation.

  ‘Yes,’ drawled Fowler with absolute disinterest.

  ‘You could’ve said so yesterday,’ Cohen said, wavering still with disbelief.

  ‘Why on earth would I do that?’ Fowler replied, his eyes still glued to his screen. ‘There’s no fun in it if you don’t sweat a little bit, is there now?’

  ‘This,’ Cohen hissed. ‘This is an important merger to me.’

  ‘You’re leaving Roberts-Canning.’ Fowler shrugged. ‘I don’t have to make things easy for you now.’

  ‘Like you’ve ever made things easy for me—’ Cohen started, before inhaling deeply. ‘Look, this is an important merger. I need to learn just a few sentences in BSL. I would appreciate it if you would teach me them.’

  Fowler rolled his eyes, finally looking up to face Cohen.

  ‘Fine,’ he said with a sigh. ‘What do you need to know for this merger?’

  With shaking hands, Cohen handed over a list.

  Fowler read it, his eyes flickering over it with interest, before he looked up to raise one sardonic eyebrow at Cohen.

  Fowler cleared his throat. ‘I love you,’ he read out loud. ‘I want to be with you forever. Will you marry me?’ He eyed Cohen sceptically. ‘This must be some damn merger, Ford.’

  Cohen flushed a deep red.

  Fowler gave a Cheshire Cat grin. ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Just a woman,’ Cohen replied, his voice small. ‘A deaf woman who works in an ice creamery in London.’

  ‘A BSL user, so obviously British,’ Fowler added.

  Cohen stood taller. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you love her?’

  ‘Yes. With all my heart.’

  ‘And I take it this British deaf woman is the reason for your sudden exit from Roberts-Canning?’

  Cohen refused to say another word. Because this was Fowler, head of Human Resources for Roberts-Canning LLC, and he knew better than to reveal too much.

  But Fowler clasped both of his hands under his chin, staring up at Cohen with utter delight. ‘This is all very romantic, Ford. Like Daphnis and Chloe,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘I don’t even know what that is.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. A simple man like you wouldn’t. You should try going to the opera every so often. Culture doesn’t hurt, you know.’

  Cohen gritted his teeth. ‘I don’t need to go to the opera. I just need to learn a few phrases in BSL and …’

  But Fowler was still talking. ‘You and your new lady friend could be like the new Pelléas and Mélisande, perhaps …’

  Cohen stared. Fowler was undoubtedly mocking him, and he didn’t have to stand here and take this, so he turned, ready to leave and—

  ‘—or like Nelson and his Lady Hamilton …’

  At the word ‘Nelson’, Cohen turned back. ‘I know who that is,’ he interrupted, and Fowler rolled his eyes.

  ‘Sure you do,’ he drawled, his voice ripe with disbelief.

  But Cohen stood firm. ‘I do know,’ he insisted. ‘I went to visit his column in London.’

  ‘Ah, the motherland.’ Fowler shrugged. ‘So, you saw his column. Nearly all the tourists do and—’

  ‘—he joined the Royal navy aged twelve,’ Cohen continued. ‘He was made Captain by twenty and then an Admiral before he was forty.’ He paused, thinking once more of his Uncle Israel. ‘He lost his right hand in battle. They took it off without anaesthetic.’

  Now Fowler stared at Cohen.

  Cohen flushed red. ‘What?’

  But Fowler only shook his head. ‘Nothing. It’s just that I’m rarely surprised by anyone or anything.’ He stared at Cohen some more. ‘Well, come on then Ford, sit yourself down. I’ll teach you the phrases you need.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to help me?’ Cohen asked. ‘Really?’

  Fowler nodded. ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘Oh, well … thank you.’ Cohen swallowed. ‘Fowler, look, I knew you were British but had no idea you knew BSL—’ he began, but Fowler waved his hand. His eyes darkened momentarily.

  ‘I had a sister,’ Fowler admitted. ‘She had Down’s Syndrome, which affected her hearing. We learnt BSL as a family.’

  Cohen stared at him.

  ‘She died when she was twenty-one,’ Fowler carried on. ‘She went through two rounds of heart surgery and one gastrointestinal surgery, and in the end, a car killed her. Came hurtling down a road she was walking on and she didn’t – couldn’t – hear it coming.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cohen said.

  Fowler nodded easily. ‘Don’t be. It’s my tragedy, not yours. She liked the opera, even though she couldn’t hear the singing,’ he mused. ‘Daphnis and Chloe, Pelléas and Mélisande, Nelson and Lady Hamilton.’ Abruptly, he smiled. ‘She would’ve loved this story too. A hearing man falling in love with a deaf girl. It’s beautiful, Ford.’

  Cohen said nothing.

  ‘Now sit down, pay attention and learn,’ Fowler ordered him, his voice back to its usual snide tone. ‘So that when you go back to London … I take it you’re going back to London?’

  Cohen nodded.

  ‘Good for you. The food here is just awful. Well, watch my hands carefully then,’ Fowler told him. ‘So that when you get back to London, you can ask this deaf British woman who got you to leave Roberts-Canning to marry you.’

  Cohen sat.

  ‘Just out of curiosity, when do you go back to London?’

  ‘I guess in a month. When my notice period expires.’

  Fowler regarded him with a nod. ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do about that. If your notice period wasn’t an ... an issue, when would you go back?’

  Cohen closed his eyes. He wondered how long it really would take him to walk away from one life and into another. How long he would need to leave the emptiness of his New York existence for River’s arms in London.

  He opened his eyes and stared at Fowler.

  ‘Tuesday,’ he said. ‘I’d go back next Tuesday.’

  ‘Just in time for Christmas,’ Fowler said.

  But Cohen shrugged. ‘Yeah. But also, before the end of Hanukkah.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Holiday Special

  Fowler, as it turned out, could work miracles. Under his immaculate suit and coiffed hair lay a master manipulator who terrified Cohen to the pit of his soul. Quite frankly, Fowler was wasted in Human Resources.

  On the Monday morning, when Cohen’s jet-lag had truly kicked in and he was knocking back the black coffee like there was no tomorrow, Fowler idled into his office and signed hello. Cohen signed back, distracted, ready to kick his laptop from the top of the building for taking twenty minutes to update, yet again, when Fowler stood next to him.

  ‘So,’ Fowler began, as he adjusted the lapel of Cohen’s jacket. He stopped to frown at him. ‘Urgh, you look like a hobo. You’re destroying the Brooks Brothers, Ford.’

  ‘It’s Prada,’ Cohen replied tonelessly.

  Fowler wrinkled his nose. ‘Really? Oh. Well, maybe on you it just looks cheap.’

  ‘Did you want something, Fowler?’ Cohen asked, his jaw clenched.

  ‘Well, you’re going to get an email in about twenty minutes from Canning firing you, so I thought you might like a heads up.’

  Cohen’s mouth dropped open. ‘What?’

  ‘We’re firing you,’ Fowler replied blithely. ‘We’re letting you go. Cutting the rope. And it’s not us, it’s you.’

  Cohen stared at him. ‘But I
already quit.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Fowler smiled. ‘I didn’t actually get around emailing that notice to ... well, to anyone. But I did email a reporter from the Post some salacious information about Roberts-Canning LLC and Canning, which I did from your IP address.’

  ‘Fowler,’ Cohen exhaled, a knife of fear cutting through him. ‘What the hell?’

  Fowler smiled again. ‘If you quit, Ford, you’ll need to stay for a month and pay us a portion of your salary in order to walk away from your contract early. But if we fire you ...’ Fowler shrugged. ‘If we fire you, you get to leave immediately – and actually, security are already on their way, so you might want to pack up pronto – and we have to pay you a reparation sum. Do you understand me?’

  Cohen was still staring at Fowler, completely dazed.

  ‘I said, do you understand me, Ford? We’re firing you. Of course, we can’t prove you sent that email to the Post, but the evidence weighs fairly heavily against you. So, we’re letting you go. Like, right now. With a very healthy reparation amount though, so that should soften what must be—' Fowler smirked ‘—well, what must be a terrible blow to you.’

  Cohen suddenly got it. He stood taller, looking Fowler in the eye.

  ‘Why would you do this for me?’ he nearly whispered.

  Fowler shrugged. ‘Maybe I like a good love story.’ He waved his hand. ‘Or maybe I’m just tired of you crapping all over my office juice cleanse diets and team building days.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Cohen nodded as he spoke, for once feeling truly humbled.

  But Fowler frowned at him again. ‘If you want to thank me, you’ll get on a plane to London, marry this lady of yours and never darken the halls of Roberts-Canning again. Oh, and get rid of that suit. You can’t carry Prada. What were you thinking? Stick to the classics, Cohen. With your sort of shoulders, you can’t get away with tapering.’ Fowler turned away, walking towards the door. ‘I actually can’t even look at you any more, you’re killing that suit so badly.’

  Cohen called out to his departing figure. ‘Merry Christmas, Fowler.’

  Fowler turned, and Cohen saw, for the first time ever, a genuine hint of a smile cross his face.