He went to leave, but Christine put a stilling hand on his arm. It was the touch of a snake, and Cohen recoiled.
‘You know how good I can be,’ she said suggestively. ‘I promise I’ll be the perfect wife this time, Cohen. I’ll be the perfect hostess, the perfect bed-mate and the perfect woman. Everything you ever wanted, Cohen.’
Cohen looked at her with disgust. ‘I don’t want perfect. I never wanted perfect.’
‘What do you want then?’ Christine asked, her face sharp.
‘Just love.’
Now, Christine looked at him with disgust.
‘You never wanted love before,’ she said with a sneer. ‘You only wanted a good body and a pretty decoration to wear on your arm. What happened to you in London?’
Cohen looked at her one more time, knowing it would be the last time he would ever lay eyes on her.
‘I grew up,’ he told her simply.
He turned away, relief singing through him.
And he didn’t leave money for the wine.
Cohen’s last stop was a faded brownstone. He knocked once, then twice, then a third time.
Perhaps she wasn’t home.
Perhaps he should have called first.
Perhaps this was a bad idea.
But the door swung open, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, looking down at his feet.
‘Cohen.’
There was no disappointment there, but then neither was there love or affection.
Cohen looked up.
‘Hello, Mother. Happy Hanukkah.’
Chapter Thirteen
Challah
When Esther opened the door to let Cohen into her home, her hands were shaking slightly. Cohen pretended he didn’t notice.
When she handed him a cup of hot chocolate – because apparently, he was thirteen again and Esther was still worried about caffeine stunting his growth –hishands were shaking slightly.
But Esther pretended she didn’t notice.
They sat in the kitchen, Cohen’s six-foot frame dwarfing the tiny chair he’d been ushered into. He dwarfed his mother now too; even though he was sitting and she standing, he was still a head taller than her. Cohen stared at her, at the grey-brown of her hair, the crow’s feet around her eyes and the papery thinness of her hands. He stared at her, and for the first time, he didn’t see the battle-axe mother of his youth, but a woman drifting from middle into old age. He saw a woman with disappointment written into the lines of her face, but it was a disappointment tempered by love. Because, like Billy, his mother had smile lines. Like Billy, there was an echo of happiness permanently written into her features.
And Cohen was glad. Glad that there had been people to make his mother smile over her lifetime, even when he and Jim, the people who should have made her smile the most, failed in their task.
He was glad his mother was happy, and for once, he felt this without bitterness, anger or a lingering sense of resentment. He didn’t begrudge his mother her happiness, not now when he’d finally had a taste of his own.
His hands curled around the mug in his hand and he sipped at his drink, Esther watching him all the while.
‘It’s good, thank you,’ he said after a minute, and Esther opened her mouth, clearly surprised.
