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.
‘Lotus root braised in soy sauce, sea-salted kelp, jellyfish salad, aubergine in sea-spicy sauce, bitter melon in garlic sauce, bean curd in a yellow bean paste and eggs in a tomato sauce,’ the waiter told him proudly.
‘Right,’ Cohen replied through an abruptly dry throat, all pleasure receding in the face of such unspeakable horror.
‘River has excellent taste,’ the waiter assured him. ‘Her mother and the manager are friends, so her family have been coming here for years. She always picks out the best mix of flavours.’
He signed as he spoke, and River blushed. Cohen, meanwhile, could only stare. Because was this waiter hitting on River? Now Cohen eyed him suspiciously, because this was the kind of act he did when trying to woo a woman into bed. The cheek kisses, the side-eyes, the undermining of a date, the learning of a new language just so he could speak to them and ... and oh ...
Oh.
Cohen sat back, regarding the waiter anew. Because yes, there was a light in the waiter’s eyes when he looked at River, and yes, he’d clearly learnt to sign for her and her alone. And suddenly, Cohen was reminded of Rushi’s warning, of how men had tried to take advantage of River, of the men who had taken advantage of her. Not this man, certainly, and not Cohen, God no, the very thought made him feel ill.
But there it was, sitting as sourly in his stomach as the rice wine. The realisation that the only difference between him and the man who’d abused River’s trust so far was intention.
He looked at River, at her bright hazel eyes, made brighter with wine and kissing and sunflower paintings by twilight. He looked at the delicate pink flush of her cheeks, a pink brought on by the simplest of praises, and then at the half crescent smile that accompanied that hue. He looked at her, pure and good and light and everything he had ever wanted in life, and suddenly he knew.
He loved her.
He must have looked astounded, stunned even, because River leaned forward, pressing a note into his shaking hand.
I know the food sounds strange, she wrote. But please trust me. I would never let anything bad happen to you, especially on a culinary level. Flavour is kind of my thing, after all.
And he nodded, even though she had stolen the words from his very mouth, just as she had stolen his heart, his soul and every other part he could possibly offer.
The waiter, his own eyes narrowing, must have seen the moment of trust pass between him and River, because he leaned in closer, and when he spoke, his words were edged with malice. ‘Would sir care for a knife and fork?’ he asked. ‘Chopsticks can be tricky ... particularly with such large hands as yours.’
But Cohen waved him away. ‘Leave the chopsticks. I’m fine with them.’ He paused. ‘Even with such large hands like mine.’
He didn’t need cutlery. He was Jewish, after all and had eaten Chinese food every Christmas for as long as he could remember. Lights on the trees outside, carols in the air and a paper cup full of fried noodles and chicken Sichuan at Esther’s table … that was Christmas for him. He handled the wooden sticks deftly, and he could tell that River was looking at him approvingly as he easily swiped up a piece of eggplant and brought it to his lips.
It was surprisingly delicious. The eggplant, or aubergine as it was over here, was sweet and sour and salty all at once, a mix of garlic and chilli and soy dancing on his tongue, and Cohen couldn’t remember when he last ate something so delicious. Within half an hour he’d demolished half the plate, fuelled by his desire to impress River, a true desire to eat the food before him and unwise quantities of rice wine coursing through his blood.
Halfway through their meal, River passed him another note.
There’s an old superstition in China, you know. They say that if you hold the chopsticks near the bottom you will marry a person close to home, but if you hold them from the top, you will marry a person far away.
She looked pointedly at Cohen and at the chopsticks in his hands, where his fingers rested close to the base.
Looks like we aren’t meant to be, she wrote with a cheeky smile.
Cohen, struck dumb with love and food and warmth, didn’t immediately know how to respond or how to adequately express what he felt so strongly in his heart.
But I think you’re my home, he eventually wrote, and River’s smile grew deep and pure.
I think you might be mine too, she replied, and Cohen felt his heart sing.
Tomorrow, he decided, he would come back to this restaurant and buy every last bottle of rice wine they owned. In forty years, he’d give them all to their children and grandchildren. They’d drink to l’chaim and ice cream and drunken nights with friends and family.
When they got up to leave the restaurant, they were both tipsy and a little unsteady on their feet. But they’d hardly reached the bottom of the restaurant’s stairs when River suddenly pushed Cohen into a dark corner, raking her hands over his body, bringing her face up to his and kissing him deeply. She tasted like salt and sugar and he growled in response, pushing his hands under her clothing to grasp at soft expanses of skin. Her hands were in his hair and her tongue was in his mouth, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear Big Ben chiming midnight while Christmas carols carried melodically across the night air.
River’s hand slipped into his pocket just as she neatly nipped at his bottom lip, pulling back from him. He moaned, reaching for her again but she stepped back, smiling at him and thrusting an envelope with ‘Scenario B’ written across the top of it.
He opened the envelope, sporadically kissing River all the while.
Take me home with you, is all that was written within.
He nodded, because of course – of course – he was taking her home with him. He was taking her home and never letting her leave again.
But something in the back of his mind clawed at him, and without thinking, he pulled the last envelope from his pocket, the one that said ‘Scenario A’.
He looked at River, who shrugged, before nudging him to open it.
Take me home with you.
He looked at her again, his eyes wide.
It’s always been you, she scrawled on the back of the envelope. I just didn’t know it until we met. This is always how we were going to be, Cohen.
And then she kissed him again, softly this time, a kiss of love rather than of lust, a kiss that told him they had all the time in the world to be together.
And suddenly, Cohen felt it. Deep inside him like a stirring in his blood, or perhaps even his soul.
Cohen Ford had never been a man of faith.
But standing there that night, a beautiful woman in his arms and a clock chiming in the background, he felt it.
God. Or perhaps it was spirit, or maybe faith. The name in itself was not important. He only knew that it was a belief in something better. A belief in something eternal. A belief in a force that had brought him to River.