Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery: A heart-warming Christmas romance full of surprises Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thank You

  About the Author

  More Choc Lit from Sharon Ibbotson

  Introducing Choc Lit

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright information

  Preview of A Game of Desire by Sharon Ibbotson

  About the Book

  Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery

  by Sharon Ibbotson

  Hanukkah days, Christmas nights and strawberry ice cream …

  Cohen Ford is a man who could do with a little bit of sweetening up. It’s no surprise that when he walks into The Great Greenwich Ice Creamery on a typically gloomy London day before Christmas, he insists on a black coffee rather than his childhood favourite – strawberry ice cream.

  But then he meets River de Luca, the woman behind the flavours. After their first encounter, Cohen begins visiting the ice creamery every Tuesday, gradually learning more about the intriguing River. Could her influence encourage cynical Cohen to become the man who embraces Christmas, Hanukkah and even strawberry ice cream?

  Other novels by Sharon:

  The Marked Lord

  A Game of Desire (read a preview at the end of this novel)

  Where heroes are like chocolate – irresistible!

  www.choc-lit.com

  Chapter One

  Strawberry

  Cohen Ford’s overcoat was damp and flecked with rain, and he was cold from just ten minutes spent trudging through the bitter sleet of an English winter. His pants were wet, sticking to his legs like an uncomfortable second skin, while his socks squelched within his shoes. Looking down, Cohen angrily regarded the wet patches on his clothing. An unsuspecting American in a city full of uneven paving and forgotten potholes, he hadn’t known to keep an eye out for hidden puddles. And now, his expensive and well-cut suit was paying the price for his ignorance.

  With a resigned sigh, Cohen shrugged himself further into his coat, turning up the collar in a pitiful attempt to protect himself from the vile December weather. He pulled his cell out from his pocket, squinting at the map even as droplets of water began to run down the screen, marring the image.

  It was supposed to be here.

  He double checked the address his mother had given him. And yes, this was it. Turnpin Lane, Greenwich.

  He glanced up and around. He was standing in what felt like a narrow alleyway, all cobbles and grey stone, with quirky shops set into the buildings around him. Buildings that stood at odd angles, not quite straight and not quite uniform, with wooden-framed doorways and uneven windows sprinkled liberally with dust and grime.

  He could see the occasional sign hanging over a doorway. One read Vintage Clothing in bright red lettering, while another advertised Gifts in a delicate cursive. But nowhere could Cohen find a sign for ice cream. And that made sense to him – because London was freaking cold and who wanted ice cream in this kind of weather? – while making no sense at all, because his mother told him it would be here.

  And as he knew from bitter experience, his mother was never wrong.

  He was rubbing the icy rain from his face again when, from the corner of his eye, he spied a colourfully painted doorway a few shops down the lane. Feeling more hopeful, Cohen took a few tentative steps in that direction, stepping over the pools of water settling into the uneven cobbles, and glanced up.

  A pastel-pink doorway with pastel-green edging, brightened further by a Christmas wreath of pinecones and berries hanging merrily in the middle. A storefront window, the panes uneven but clean, the wood frame weathered but sturdy, bedecked with tinsel. There was a warm light radiating through the glass, brightening the oppressive grey of the weather and miserable London streets, and Cohen felt a flicker of a memory awaken inside of him.

  He’d been here before. He wasn’t sure when, or why, but he could vaguely recall standing before this pink doorway, grey clouds above him, while his mother nervously smoothed down her hair beside him.

  ‘Rushi is an old friend of mine, and I respect her opinion. So, please, just be good for me today, Cohen,’ his mother had pleaded, and he’d bitten his lip, scuffing his polished shoes against the ground, a small act of rebellion at the unfairness of his mother’s words. Because he always tried to be good.

  It was only later, after his father left and Cohen at last gave up on trying to win his mother’s approval, that the bigger acts of rebellion would come.

  Yes. This was it, Cohen decided, pushing the past away, back into an ether where it could not hurt him. A sign just to the left of the door, prettily illustrated and in a quirky font that made him wince, only confirmed his conclusion.

  The Great Greenwich Ice Creamery.

  With a sigh, Cohen rolled his eyes. This was exactly the kind of sickly sweet and whimsical nonsense he did not have the time or patience for. Once again, he wondered how Rushi de Luca, a Chinese woman with an Italian surname, came to be running an ice creamery in the greyest part of South London. But even as the question crossed his mind, Cohen dismissed it. It wasn’t his place to question the lives of others, after all. Especially considering how spectacularly poor his own life choices had been to date.

  Besides, he’d spent a whole lifetime trying not to be surprised by his mother’s odd assortment of friends and colleagues. A whole lifetime of dinners with Middle Eastern sheiks, Russian oligarchs and American billionaires. A whole lifetime of being told not to speak about this, and please, Cohen, don’t mention that. A lifetime of being reminded of who his mother was, and why her work was so important.

  A whole lifetime of accommodating other people.

  A whole lifetime of never saying what was on his mind.

  So, Rushi de Luca didn’t need to worry. He wasn’t about to start asking questions now.

  When Cohen pushed on the pastel-pink door, a bell chimed merrily above him, the sound still ringing in his ears as he lowered his large frame through a ridiculously small doorway. Of course, he remembered Rushi as being small, but still, this was a Hobbit level of ridiculousness, and Cohen couldn’t help but curse – loudly – when he banged his head against the doorway, pain radiating through his skull.

  For a moment Cohen stood, his head in his hands, while stars danced unhappily before his eyes. It was then, while he collected himself, still wincing in pain, that he was struck by the syrupy smell of the gelateria, of strawberry sauce and chocolate shavings and burnt butter and whipped cream. It was the smell of sweetness. The smell of laughter.

  It was, he suddenly realised, the smell of his childhood.

  And that, to Cohen, was intolerable. It was one thing to be assaulted by a door frame. But to be assaulted by a memory? He wouldn’t have it.

  Walking past wooden tables that hadn’t changed in twenty years, across a wooden floor that hadn’t changed in a hundred, through a stone-walled shop that had probably been here since the Plague, Cohen impatiently rapped his knuckle on the glass-topped counter. He deliberately ignored the rainbow colours of ice cream within, from lemon-yellow
to deepest purple, pastel-green to vibrant red. He ignored words like Cinnamon Pumpkin, Birthday Cake Surprise and Crisp Green Apple, all accompanied by slightly silly sketches of the proffered product. He ignored the waffle cones, dipped in chocolate, or honey, or butterscotch. He ignored an abrupt and unwelcome memory of himself as a child, peering up and into the glass, his mother’s hand warm on his back.

  Cohen swallowed hard. He was a bitter man, and this shop was a degree too sweet for him. He knocked his hand against the counter again, his patience – already ice-thin – melting further towards cracked status. But there was no reply, no flurry of footsteps from the kitchen into the shop, or hurried apologies carrying through the sugar-sweet air. After one more fruitless knock, Cohen called out, one wet foot tapping restlessly on the floor, his fingers drumming tetchily against the glass as he waited for Rushi to make her hallowed appearance.

  He did not have time for this.

  He did not have time for his mother, or any of her eccentric friends. He did not have time to travel an hour across the city, to cross the Thames into the southern bowels of London, where the British, in a display of ineffective quirkiness that reflected badly on their Victorian forbears, decided the tube would not travel. He did not have the time for his mother’s errands, for ‘Oy vey, just go and see her quickly. For God’s sake, Cohen, it won’t kill you to do me a favour once in a while, will it?’, or for nostalgia-heavy ice creameries. He did not have time for ice cream, for sickly concoctions in pale pink cups, or for ancient shops with empty counters, without even a bell for customers to ring so to get the attention of the staff. Staff who were clearly so busy in their ice cream dispensing duties that they couldn’t possibly take the time to dispense ice cream.

  No, Cohen Ford did not have the time for this, or for any of —

  A door opening from behind the counter broke his trail of angry thoughts, and he looked up and over the sea of ice cream to where a young woman now stood, wiping her hands on a gingham apron. She looked at him in surprise, chewing on her lip, which Cohen emphatically did not stare at, nor did he immediately think of strawberries, of ripe summer fruit desperate to be plucked.

  He cleared his throat, still looking at her, indicating to the counter. ‘I’m looking for Rushi,’ he said, and she stared back at him, nodding.

  She had brown hair – no, not just brown, chestnut hair – held back from her face in a braid tied with colourful ribbons. Logically, Cohen knew her hair was tied back because of the ice cream. He’d found the British, for all that they didn’t invest in their roads and for all that their trains made no sense and for all that they operated modern businesses out of ancient buildings, had a stringent food safety policy that put the US to shame. All the same, he was glad her hair was back, because her face ... her face was a wonder.

  Hazel eyes, neither green nor brown but a magical mix of both, looked at him from under long dark lashes. Her skin was creamy, though her cheeks were flush with the cold, or perhaps exertion, Cohen couldn’t be sure. He stared all the same, noting that they were high and pleasantly round; that when she smiled, he was reminded of apples, nestled in the branches of a tree. What would it be like, he abruptly thought, to steal a kiss from such sweet fruit? But then she smiled again, and all and any rational thought left his mind.

  He definitely did not have time for this.

  He made a concerted effort to bring his mind back, to pull himself away from images of fruit and sweetness to something resembling a coherent, mature thought process. He dragged his gaze from hers, looked down at his feet and muttered under his breath.

  ‘Is she here? Rushi, I mean?’ He looked back up, and the woman was still gazing at him, curiosity in her eyes.

  Okay then. Cohen took a deep breath, indicating to the counter. ‘There isn’t a bell,’ he remarked, but once again, he was met with that same curious look. A look of confusion, concern and even a little pity. Cohen stiffened, standing taller.

  He couldn’t bear pity, well-intentioned or not.

  Cohen Ford was a busy man, and he did not have time for a pity parade, even if he was the float of honour.

  ‘Look, is Rushi here or not?’ he finally snapped, adjusting the strap of his bag across his shoulder. ‘I don’t have time for just hanging around, and—’

  And she surprised him then, this woman. She surprised him by walking towards him, reaching out and taking his cheeks in her hands. Before he even had the time to register his surprise, to think how amazing her skin felt against his, she’d angled his face towards the light, looking with deep concern at his forehead. She stepped back, her hands leaving his face, and he felt bereft at the lack of her touch. She frowned, pointing to her own forehead, nodding at him.

  You’re hurt, she seemed to say.

  Cohen brought his fingers to his forehead, mirroring her touch, but when he removed his hand, it came away wet.

  Wet and warm, not at all like the British sleet. Red and salty, not at all like the pastel sweetness of this ice creamery.

  ‘Oh God,’ he exclaimed, seeing the blood on his fingertips. ‘I’m bleeding, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—’

  It said a lot about this woman, he thought, that his first reaction was to apologise, rather than sue her for her antiquated, small and head-injuring doorway.

  Her reaction was quick. From behind the counter she bundled up a cloth, leaning over the counter to press it to his head. It was yellow gingham, made from the same fabric as her apron, and it smelled like her. Like spun sugar, clean cotton and warmth.

  For a moment, Cohen couldn’t breathe. All he could do was look into the liquid flecks of her eyes and lose himself. With another smile, she lightened her grip on the cloth, motioning that he should keep it pressed to his head. She turned away and ran water over her hands at the sink.

  ‘I’m Cohen,’ he said abruptly. ‘Cohen Ford. I’m, uh, here to see Rushi. She’s an old friend of my mother’s. I have a gift for her. Is she here?’

  The woman looked back, giving him another small smile, before turning to a cupboard. She started to rummage through it, and he tried – he really, really tried – not to stare at the delicate curve of her hip as she leant before him.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked now, his voice soft.

  Because screw Rushi and the birthday gift he was supposed to deliver from his mother. Screw the fact that he had three trains to catch back to his flat. Screw the fact that he was still dripping wet, blood seeping from his head. Screw the fact that he was going back to the States in, what, another four weeks? Screw everything except the fact that there was this woman. This woman, with her beautiful eyes and kind smile. This woman, the first woman to turn his head in over three years, since Christine spun on her kitten heels and left him with an empty apartment and bank account.

  The only thing Christine didn’t take with her, aside from Cohen and his hurt pride, was the bread maker. She stopped eating carbs at about the same time she’d stopped loving Cohen, apparently. She had no use for either in her new life.

  For a month after she left, all Cohen did was make bread. Sourdough, olive, brown, seeded, it didn’t matter. He was the saddest, most pathetic baker in the world, weeping over multi-grain flour and proving baskets.

  It was when he’d sent a second hamper full of handmade, gift-wrapped focaccia to his mother, that Esther finally snapped.

  ‘Get it together,’ she’d ordered, in the tone she usually reserved for the boardroom. ‘Christine was a bitch. We understand that. But only fruitcakes actually make fruitcake, Cohen.’

  ‘But Uncle Israel makes fruitcake,’ Cohen retorted, to which his mother rolled her eyes.

  ‘And we love him,’ she replied smoothly. ‘But if you end up like him, weaving baskets in the Catskills, milking your own herd of cows and using homemade homeopathic remedies instead of actual medicine for high blood pressure, I will disown you. You’re my son, a Sedler by blood if not by name. Get it together, Cohen.’

  Cohen got it.

  S
o, he went out. Bought new furniture. New clothes. He had a few meaningless affairs, brief and unsatisfactory. He binned the bread maker.

  Now, standing in a shop that essentially sold nothing but frozen carbohydrates in sugar form, he felt, for the first time since Christine left, real attraction to another human being.

  If this was irony, he decided he liked it.

  But the woman didn’t answer him. Instead, she turned away from the cupboard and back to him, holding out a first aid kit and a bandage. He took the proffered items, and she pointed to a table, telling him to sit.

  He sat. At this point, she could tell him to strip to his underwear and sing the greatest hits of The Beach Boys, and he would have obeyed her every word. Although this was London, so it would probably be The Beatles. Did he know any Beatles’ songs? Cohen thought fast but came up with nothing. His father, he knew, would have been so ashamed of him.

  That’s if he’d still been alive.

  Swallowing hard, Cohen watched the woman, trying to banish away all uncomfortable thoughts of his father. She came to sit next to him, taking his hands and peeling the cloth from his head. She inspected his wound before cleaning it with a sterile wipe. His heart pounded frantically in his chest and his breath came short and fast while she tended to him, and he tried to hide a sudden tremble to his fingers, unwilling to show his nervousness at her close proximity. He hadn’t been this affected by the presence of a woman in years – hadn’t been this taken by a woman in years – and the knowledge that he, Cohen Ford, been reduced to a shaking mess from mere attraction sat uncomfortably on his shoulders.

  But his stiffness made the girl frown, and he saw concern drift across her face. Cohen knew she was worried that he was in pain, and he tried to smile, to reassure her. He was intrigued enough now that he didn’t want to frighten her away, and so with effort, he attempted to relax, and concentrate on the present. He focused on the feeling of her hands and the pleasant warmth emanating from her skin. He let himself glance up into her hazel eyes, losing himself briefly in their depths, and felt a flush of pleasure when she met his gaze. He inhaled sharply, letting this perfect moment wash over him. A perfect moment, but, like all of life’s pleasures, fleeting and over all too soon. For the woman nodded as she applied a bandage to his head with a flourish, pressing down gently and then patting him on the back, as though in thanks for being brave.