Page 10 of The Apple Cider Orchard

The wheels caught between stones, jammed against uneven edges, and skidded sideways when they hit particularly smooth, worn patches. Each step required a calculated readjustment, a fresh battle of will against physics and architecture. Another tug. Another spray of water, higher this time, splashing the hem of her jacket.

The rain intensified, as if taking Molly’s determination as a personal challenge. She could barely see through the water streaming down her face, her hair now plastered to her scalp in dripping tendrils.

Through rain-blurred vision, the village revealed itself further in glimpses and fragments. The famed square was smaller than she’d imagined – more intimate than grand, enclosed by buildings that huddled together like old friends. In the middle stood a curious ornate stone fountain, water streaming down its carved surface and pooling around the base.

All around the square, not-yet-open shop fronts glowed with warm interior light. The bookstore on one side, its bay window displaying volumes arranged by color rather than genre, creating a rainbow effect visible even through the rain.

Only the doors of the café stood ajar, the scent of early baking wafting out to mingle with the rain-soaked air. A wooden sign swung in the wind above it, The Cherry Blossom Café. Alongside it, a butcher shop, the sign lettering barely legible from where Molly stood: Carved Oak Butchers – Est. 1847.

Her marketing brain activated involuntarily, assessing the place as if it were a potential client. The color scheme was inconsistent – duck-egg blue beside forest green, alongside weathered stone – yet somehow harmonious. The hand-painted signs displayed craftsmanship and the overall aesthetic was hotch-potch but authentic, giving the impression of a place that had evolved organically rather than being designed for appeal.

A woman hurried past, dressed in a waxed jacket, a small dog trotting at her heels. She nodded with casual friendliness, seemingly unbothered by the weather. ‘Howya,’ she called out, as if Molly was a familiar neighbor rather than a bedraggled stranger fighting a losing battle with luggage and elements.

‘Hello,’ Molly replied automatically, the word half-swallowed by a gust of wind.

The woman and dog continued across the square without breaking stride, disappearing into the café. Moments later, an older man on a bicycle pedaled past, completely unbothered by the rain or the wind, his lack of rain gear suggesting either extraordinary optimism or complete surrender.

Molly felt acutely foreign suddenly – not just American, but urban. A creature of climate-controlled offices and ride-share apps, thrust into a world where rain wasn’t an inconvenience; just a condition of existence.

Her jacket, designed more for style than function, had surrendered completely. Water trickled down her neck and between her shoulder blades, cold fingers tracing her spine. Her pants, increasingly sodden, clung to her legs with clammy insistence. The suitcase, as if sensing her moment of distraction, chose that precise moment to tip sideways, landing in a puddle with a decisive splash.

‘Perfect …’ Molly muttered, yanking it upright.

She stood still for a moment, rain streaming down her face, as she checked her phone, trying to get her bearings. The driver had said the hotel was at the top of the square, but which way was considered the top or the bottom? In the downpour, both looked equally possible and equally uninviting. Her eyes stung with a mixture of rain and exhaustion-fueled emotion.

This was not how she’d imagined her arrival. In the countless times she’d pictured this journey – initially when Nan had made the request, and more recently when Molly’d made the decision to come – she’d somehow always envisioned sunshine. Golden light catching on the lake’s surface, the village warm and welcoming, perhaps someone from her grandmother’s past recognizing her immediately (‘those Brennan eyes!’).

A Hollywood version of an Irish homecoming.

Instead Molly stood lost, drenched and shivering in a unfamiliar place, her expensive luggage proving useless, her carefully planned wardrobe increasingly waterlogged, with no clear direction and definitely no welcoming committee.

She felt a laugh bubble up from somewhere deep inside her.

Of course it would rain. Of course her suitcase wheels would catch on every cobblestone. Of course she would look like a drowned rat within minutes of arrival.

Aoife would have loved this moment – would have thrown her head back and laughed at the sky, arms spread wide to embrace the chaos. Molly’s grandmother had never met a situation she couldn’t find humor in, even when that humor had a sharp edge of irony.

‘You’re overthinking it, mo chroí,’ she seemed to whisper now through the rain. ‘The path only reveals itself to those who start walking.’

Chapter 5

Jack Flynn’s steel-toe boots splashed through puddles with indifferent ease as he unloaded crates from the back of his mud-spattered pickup. Raindrops sneaked beneath the collar of his worn leather jacket, but he barely noticed it anymore – this time of year meant accepting you’d be damp more often than dry.

The weight of each crate felt right in his hands, the familiar burn across his shoulders a testament to years spent hauling the fruits of his labor from orchard to village and beyond. He set another crate beside The Orchard Pub’s service entrance, nodding at the proprietor through the half-open door. ‘Last one.’

‘Good man yourself,’ Seamus O’Shea called back. ‘Though who’ll be drinking it in this weather is beyond me.’

Jack glanced up at the sky, gray as slate and just as unyielding. ‘Ah, that’ll clear by noon.’

‘Let me guess, the apple trees told you.’

Jack’s mouth quirked into the closest thing he had to a smile. ‘West orchard never fails.’

Seamus guffawed. ‘I’ll take your word over the apps any day, to be fair.’

Jack turned back to his truck, delivery complete. He didn’t mind the rain at all. If anything, it kept the nuisance day-trippers away, leaving the village to those who respected its rhythms and peculiarities. September rain meant the apples would be plump and sweet, the cider rich with tannins.

The square was quiet at this hour, only a few business owners setting up behind rain-streaked windows before opening.