And Cohen clicked delete, packed up his bag and left the building.
His wasn’t sorry to go, and when he stepped outside into the chilly New York morning, he felt lighter than he had for years, a smile on his face.
If he kept this up, he’d soon have smile lines too.
He couldn’t think of anything better.
Esther was furious when Cohen stopped by her house to say goodbye.
‘What? You’re leaving? But ... but you just got back. It’s Hanukkah. You’ve only been here, what, a week?’
‘I need to be with her, Mother,’ he said simply. ‘I miss her.’
Esther frowned, her lips set into a tight line.
‘So, you’re just going to go, right now, like this?’
Cohen nodded.
‘And when will you be back?’
Cohen sighed. ‘I’ve applied for a tourist visa to the UK and been given a year. Of course, if River and I get married before then I’ll start the application to become a UK resident and—’
But Esther sat down with a dejected sigh. ‘You’re not coming back, are you?’ she asked sadly.
Cohen sat next to her, putting a long arm around her small shoulders. She was like a doll, his mother, and he wondered again how this frail-bodied woman ever birthed a man like him. But of course, Esther had a spine of steel and a heart of gold, so that probably helped.
Cohen smiled down at her. ‘We’ll visit, you know we will.’
‘It won’t be the same.’
‘No,’ Cohen agreed. ‘No, it won’t.’
‘I’m going to miss you,’ Esther confessed. ‘The other day ... it just ... it felt like you were finally coming home, Cohen. Like you were finally my Cohen again.’
Cohen kissed her head. ‘I am your Cohen,’ he told Esther. ‘I’ll always be your Cohen, in a way. It’s just that now, with River ... the concept of home is a little different. I need to make my own now, you know. And I have a feeling that with River, we’ll make a good one.’
Esther nodded. ‘I know. It’s just hard for a mother to see her child moving on.’ She sighed again, before looking up at him, her eyes sharp. ‘As soon as work allows, I’m coming to London to meet this River. And I don’t care if she is Rushi de Luca’s daughter.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Alright, so I do care. But regardless, I don’t care if she’s deaf.’
Cohen almost smiled. ‘Yes, you do.’
‘Fine. So, I do care. But look, Rushi de Luca’s daughter, deaf, whatever ... she’s not getting an easy ride because of that. I need to make sure she’s good enough for you.’
‘I think you’ll find she’s too good for me.’ Cohen laughed.
But Esther shook her head, her eyes soft. ‘No. No, please don’t sell yourself short like that. You always did, and I never told you before how much it bothered me to hear you put yourself down. You’re an amazing man, Cohen Ford. Don’t ever think otherwise.’
Cohen stood, giving his mother another kiss.
Esther looked up at him from behind lidded eyes. ‘And Cohen?’ she began, her voice light, almost wheedling.
‘Yes, Mother?’
‘Talk to River about the Jewish thing. I hear conversion is easy enough these days and apparently they’re always looking to increase the Jewish deaf community. I already spoke to the rabbi and …’
And Cohen went, stepping again into the New York evening, a smile on his face.
He got into a taxi. He went to the airport. He got on a plane.
And in the morning, Tuesday morning, he woke in London.
The Great Greenwich Ice Creamery was thriving that Tuesday morning. It was 11 a.m., but despite the chill in the air a crowd of people had gathered in the store, queueing for ice cream. Cohen stood with them, rubbing his hands together to warm his fingers, before rubbing the sleep and jet-lag from his eyes. He could see glimpses of blue gingham from his place in the line – blue gingham and chestnut hair – and his heart raced slightly as he pulled River’s scarf tighter around his neck.
There were Christmas decorations up in the ice creamery now, and Cohen, who’d spent the last few nights lighting Hanukkah candles, was glad to see them. They were splashes of colour against the stone walls, reds and greens and golds and silvers to match the rainbow of ice cream behind the glass counters. River, Cohen realised, made a good home, bringing warmth and colour and light to wherever she was. Would he, even with her, ever think of London as home? He didn’t know, but in a way, suspected not. But then, was New York ever home? Cohen decided quickly that it wasn’t.
Because home, Cohen had learnt, wasn’t a place or a building or city or a country. Home couldn’t be dictated by a passport or a visa or a job or a heritage.
Home, Cohen knew now, was people. People made homes, not places. A building was just a building until you filled it with friends and family. A city was just a city unless you filled it with memories.
Esther was his home, once upon a time, and then, in his wilderness years, Cohen tried unsuccessfully to make homes with Christine, and even Andrew Canning, heaven help him.
He sent a quick prayer of thanks up to the gods that Christine left him, and that he could never quite mimic the cold loneliness of Canning’s existence.
River was his home now, Cohen realised. And wherever she was, wherever they went ... that would be home. They’d make enough memories to fill a thousand cities.
They’d have enough happiness for a thousand lifetimes.
He smiled widely when he got to the front of the queue.
Billy was helping River today, his eyes occasionally flickering to the corner of the ice creamery, where a woman sat with a small boy, signing to him. Billy’s wife and son, Cohen realised. Billy turned back to the queue and, on seeing Cohen, smiled widely.
‘Hey,’ he said, nodding at him. ‘It’s Cohen the strawberry. How are you?’
But Cohen shook his head and started to sign. No, he replied with his hands. Like this now. And Billy’s grin got wider.
Okay, Billy signed back. I’ll get River for you. I’m proud of you, Strawberry.
Cohen didn’t follow it all, but he understood enough.
Billy tapped River on the shoulder, pulling her away from the coffee machine. He signed at her quickly, and her face brightened immediately. She turned to face the queue, her face breaking into a smile on seeing Cohen across the counter.
Hi, Cohen signed. I was told this was the best ice creamery in London.
River bit her lip, staring at him and smiling.
I had a few lessons in BSL in New York from a friend, Cohen continued. But I don’t know much. After Christmas I have my first lesson at the British Signing Institute though, so I’m hoping to get better and—
And River reached over the counter, wrapping her arms around his chest and covering his mouth with her own. She kissed him, hard and fast, and Cohen lifted her, pulling her across the counter so that she was in his arms properly, without anything separating them.
He was never going to be apart from her again.
They carried on kissing, Cohen’s hands wrapped in the soft fabric of River’s skirt, when a loud sigh echoed across the shop.
‘This,’ Rushi intoned loudly, ‘is a family establishment, and I’ll ask you not to maul my staff – no, not to maul my daughter – while here.’