Cohen and River broke apart, both flushing guiltily. Rushi shook her head at him. ‘Your mother called me,’ she told Cohen sharply, signing her words so that River could understand.
‘Oh,’ is all Cohen could say.
‘Oh, yes. It was a fun conversation. Did you know how easy it was to convert to Judaism these days?’ Rushi rolled her eyes. ‘I should probably mention that she called me from JFK,’ Rushi continued, smiling at the shock that crossed Cohen’s face. ‘Yes, she’s on her way. You two have about, oh, I’d say about nine hours before she gets here. Your step-mother too.’
Cohen’s mouth fell open.
Rushi smiled wickedly. ‘So, what can you two do with nine hours? River’s meant to be working, but I’m happy to cover her shift, and—’
And Cohen and River didn’t need to know anything else. Cohen was already pulling at River’s hand, intent on taking her out the door and towards the road to hail a black cab.
‘Hey!’ Rushi’s voice cut into his thoughts as well as his plans. ‘You didn’t order any ice cream.’
‘What?’ Cohen stuttered.
‘The ice cream,’ Rushi replied steadily. ‘River unveiled our new Christmas—sorry, sorry …’ Rushi paused, seeing the flurry of River’s hand movements. ‘I should say, she unveiled our new holiday flavours yesterday.’
Cohen nodded, impatient to be gone, because once his mother and Marilyn arrived, it was unlikely he and River would get much time alone again. But River’s eyes were shining happily, and he realised she was proud of her work and wanted to share it with him.
‘Chocolate with hopeful stardust,’ he said suddenly, recalling the bitter chocolate ice cream from weeks before. ‘What are the other two?’
Rushi signed for Cohen, and River flushed, leading him to the counter, pointing to the flavours within.
The first was dark blue in colour with a silvery sheen to it. Christmas Nights was written beside it on a blue card coloured with silver stars. It reminded Cohen instantly of his blue glitter ink, and suddenly he saw the mischievous twinkle in River’s eyes and couldn’t help but blush.
‘How she’s been serving that blue ice cream all day without shame is beyond me,’ Rushi commented drily. ‘It’s spiced blueberry, in case you were wondering.’
But Cohen wasn’t listening, caught as he was by the final flavour.
Hanukkah Days was cream and pink in colour, swirled with raisins and velvety lumps of dough. Cohen stared at it, a lump in his throat, until he felt a spoon pushed into his fingers.
‘Try it,’ Billy suggested. ‘River worked for days on this, trying to get the flavour just right.’
Cohen brought the spoon to his mouth, his tongue instantly tasting strawberry, underlaid with hints of freshly baked challah. It reminded him of his father and mother all at once, and he had to blink back unexpected tears.
Instantly, he turned to River. It’s beautiful, he signed, and she smiled happily.
Thank you, she replied. Now let’s get out of here.
She led him through the door, stepping out into the cold Greenwich morning, and Cohen stopped in the crisp winter air to kiss her again, holding onto her face and smiling into her eyes. Finally, he released her, stepping back.
Briefly, he thought of all the signs Fowler taught him. He thought of all the words he wanted to say to this woman. He thought of the signs for love, for marriage, for please. He thought of them all, and suddenly his heart was too full for any words, written, signed or spoken. Instead he gathered River to him, wrapping himself around her, kissing her once more, before pulling back, and signing the only thing he knew that counted in that moment.
Thank you.
River smiled, nodding her head. And then she was saying it too.
It was a cold morning in London. It was a morning of snow, of sleet and grey skies. But Cohen would always remember it fondly.
Because this was the day when his life truly began.
And he’d never been more grateful for a woman with chestnut hair and gingham ribbons, standing with him on a cold, grey and snowy Tuesday.
* The End *
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Thank You
from Sharon Ibbotson
I was walking with my mother on the underground once, when a woman behind us – impatient to be on her way – pushed past us. ‘I asked you to move!’ she snarled at my mother. My reply was instant. ‘She’s deaf,’ I told her. ‘She can’t hear you.’ In that moment, the plot for this novella leapt into my mind. This story is deeply personal to me, littered with references to aspects of my own life, and I want to thank you, lovely reader, for indulging me by reading it. Thank you for taking the time to read about Hanukkah, about ice cream, about Tuesdays (my favourite day of the week), and about British Sign Language. Thank you for having an open mind and an open heart for this romance.
If you have any thoughts or comments about this story, please do get in touch, either on social media (I’m on all the usual servers) or by leaving a review. Once more, thank you, todah, or, in BSL, my fingertips moving away from my chin. I’m very grateful for your time.
Until the next time, much love, thanks and happy chance to all. Sharon.x
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About the Author
Sharon is an Australian/Geordie writer who lives in London with her husband, son, daughter and two cats. She can be found child-wrangling by day, coffee in hand, or writing furiously by night, wine by her side. She is a voracious reader and a lover of anything romance.
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Twitter: @seibbotson
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Website: sharonibbotson.com
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It’s 1803 and widowed aristocrat Sophy DeBrowarec must flee France after being exposed as an undercover British agent. Fearing for her life, she returns to Cornwall to seek help from the only living link to her past, Fitzwilliam ‘Fitz’ Ravensbourne.
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