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 woman, 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?