Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery - Sharon Ibbotson

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