Just where he was always meant to be.
Big Ben chimed the last second of the last hour, just as Cohen wrapped River in his arms, and briefly he mourned the last few precious seconds of the day. This perfect, perfect day.
This perfect, holy Tuesday.
Chapter Nine
Fondant
There are many things River could notice about Cohen’s home without him flinching.
The fact that he lived on the top two floors of a Georgian Marylebone townhouse, for one thing. A building which, his realtor assured him, Jane Austen’s brother himself once stayed in for a month in 1803. That, and the central location, sealed the deal on this otherwise bland property for Cohen. For even though his shelves were filled with crime novels, political thrillers, Roman epics and other such acceptable male novels that his father would have approved of – ‘because only girls read romance novels, Cohen’ – he secretly loved Jane Austen and re-read Pride and Prejudice every year.
His home was tasteful and historic and expensive and in a good area. So, yes, River could notice that.
Or the fact that he had a framed Salvador Dali sketch in his living room. It was an old heirloom from his grandfather, one of his things that Israel and Esther never got around to donating, and one which, in its warped lines and hidden meanings, spoke to Cohen on a deeply personal level.
His Dali was interesting and meaningful and exotic and so, yes, River could notice that.
Then there was the old Mexican war sword he found at a market fair Christine once dragged him to. She was looking for attractive antiques, hoping to bring class to their New York penthouse. She wanted expensive and delicate items to show the world that she wasn’t just a soul-sucking gold-digger who married into money, but a woman of refined sensibility and excellent taste. Within half-an-hour Cohen was out of his mind with boredom, because who gave a damn about which tiny art-deco coffee cups they should use? Christine didn’t even drink coffee, claiming that caffeine gave her wrinkles, while Cohen preferred industrial-sized mugs for his use, so why the hell did they even need twenty-four gold embossed thimbles for coffee anyway? At this point, he’d made his way to the weaponry room and had been idly looking through old Civil War rifles when he’d seen the sword, long, sleek and dangerous, with a wrapped handle the dealer told him was an anomaly for such a weapon. Cohen picked the sword up and felt his hand thrum to life, as though it were made for him. The sword felt right in his hand, almost an extension of himself, and he bought it without a second thought. Christine had taken one look at it and shuddered, telling Cohen that it wasn’t going anywhere near her walls. But Cohen loved it and so kept it in his office until his move to London, when he put it in a glass cabinet here.
His sword was sleek and silver and told a story, so yes, River could notice that.
But no.
What River first noticed when they walked into his living room was his calligraphy set. Her mouth dropped open in delight, and within thirty seconds, before he even had time to ask her if she would like a coffee (served in a tiny gold-embossed art-deco coffee cup, which he only got in the divorce because ‘you don’t even drink coffee, Christine, you heartless succubus’) she was perusing through his brushes, ink and paper.
Cohen couldn’t help the flush of embarrassment that crossed his face, because he wasn’t an idiot, and knew that nothing screamed effeminacy more than a man who practiced calligraphy in his spare time while reading Jane Austen novels. He still remembered that summer he turned sixteen, when his father dropped in for an unexpected visit and found Cohen in his bedroom painstakingly transcribing hieroglyphics from parchment onto silk paper, and the look of mortification that crossed Jim’s face. Cohen knew what he was thinking. His father’s eyes told him everything. Real men, they seemed to say, don’t do calligraphy.
But for Cohen, calligraphy, with its intricacies and beauty and the delicate skill required to do it justice, made sense. When he picked up a brush or pen or quill, his mind would empty, his adrenaline would fade and a kind of calm would overtake him. He found peace in the written word. He found peace in the careful application of ink to paper.
But there was no use in telling his father that. No use in telling his father that in ancient times, scribes were always revered, intelligent men who were lauded by their people. No use in explaining that the ink printers of the fifteenth century revolutionised the world.
No use telling his father anything other than ‘I’m sorry’.
He was careful to hide his calligraphy set after that, though he couldn’t bear to get rid of it. The set had been a gift from his Uncle Israel on his Bar Mitzvah.
‘You’ve an eye for detail,’ Israel told him, for once coming across as a reasonable, normal adult. ‘And an even hand… for now,’ he’d added, nodding at his own prosthetic limb, reverting to type once more. ‘You’d make a good sofer one of these days.’
‘A sofer?’ Esther had intoned, shaking her head at her brother in exasperation. ‘My son? A scribe? Hmm. He can do better than that.’
Israel, with a shrug, had walked away, going back to the ragtag crowd of Korea vets he’d dragged along to the banquet after temple. Cohen still remembered the look of horror on his mother’s face when one of Israel’s friends popped out his fake eye while the cake was being served, letting the solid eyeball roll across the table and directly into the lap of the rabbi’s wife.
But he hadn’t thought to hide the calligraphy set away here. His father was dead now, after all, and Cohen had never had a woman in this home before. Had he known River was coming over, he would have put the set in his study and locked the door.
But River seemed fascinated, and even when Cohen handed her a glass of wine to drink she kept going back to the table, picking up bits and pieces and motioning for him to tell her about them.
My grandmother had a set like this, River wrote. For Chinese calligraphy. Mama taught me Chinese characters using her brushes.
And so, Cohen drank his wine, writing little notes explaining what the brushes were and how he used them. It was not a conversation he thought he would be having, but still, he enjoyed talking about this hobby of his, and he liked the look of interest in River’s eyes as she read his notes.
But there was also a certain growl of frustration within him, knowing that an hour ago he was grinding against this woman in a darkened alleyway, her tongue in his mouth and his hands on her thighs, secure in the knowledge that sex was almost completely guaranteed, but now ...
Cohen sighed. Now they were sitting politely in his Georgian townhouse, drinking wine and talking about the benefits of squid ink when using a no.4 medium bristled paintbrush on parchment paper, and if that wasn’t a PG level of Jane Austen romance he didn’t know what was.
But he wasn’t going to push River in any direction. He wanted their first time to be special, memorable for all the right reasons, and if that meant waiting and settling for a discussion about paintbrushes and a quick kiss before they signed goodnight, then so be it.
River finished her glass of wine first (a nice French red, which after the horror that was that evening’s rice wine, tasted like manna) and put her empty glass on the table. Cohen was about to offer her a refill when she turned back to the calligraphy set, picking up a bottle of deep blue ink filled with glitter and raising an eyebrow at him.