Page 23 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘It doesn’t,’ Molly assured her. ‘And I’m not looking to connect with distant relatives really. Just wanted to see the place for myself.’

Eva seemed to accept this, though her eyes remained curious. ‘Well, you picked an ideal time to visit. The leaves are just starting to turn, and we’ve had a dry August, which means the walking trails aren’t mud pits yet. Have you been out to the lake path? Views are stunning.’

‘I walked part of it this morning,’ Molly said, relaxing slightly as the conversation shifted to safer territory. ‘It’s beautiful. So peaceful compared to back home, Manhattan especially.’

‘You’re from New York?’ Eva’s eyes widened with interest. ‘With the skyscrapers and yellow taxis and all that Sex and the City glam?’

She nodded, smiling at her enthusiasm. ‘Yep. Though I promise it’s less glamorous when you’re just trying to get to work in the rain and traffic.’

‘Still,’ Eva sighed, ‘must be exciting. The most excitement we get here is when someone orders apple tart with cream instead of custard.’

They both laughed, and Molly felt some of her guardedness slip away. There was something genuinely likable about Eva – an openness that invited confidence without demanding it.

As they talked, the proprietor’s hands remained in constant motion – adjusting the flower vase, brushing invisible crumbs from the table, tucking escaped curls back beneath her scarf. Her stories were punctuated with expressive gestures, her entire body involved in the telling. She described village life with affectionate humor, pointing out the café’s regulars with subtle nods and whispered asides.

‘That’s Dr Murphy there by the window – retired now but still expects everyone to call him “Doctor”. Comes in every day at half-eleven for tea and a fruit slice, leaves exactly forty-five minutes later.’ She leaned closer, voice dropping confidentially. ‘And the three ’oul wans who were whispering when you came in? Tidy Towns committee. Currently debating whether the Christmas lights should extend to the blow-in houses on the lake road. Three meetings so far with no resolution.’

Molly found herself charmed by these glimpses into the village’s inner workings, Eva’s animated storytelling making even the most mundane local politics seem fascinating. The warmth of the café wrapped around her like a blanket, easing the dis­orientation of jetlag.

‘Oh, and see yer man just coming in now?’ Eva nodded toward the door as it opened with another musical chime. ‘That’s Father Dolan. Youngest priest we’ve had in twenty years, and half the ’oul wans lining up for daily mass since he arrived.’ She winked conspiratorially. ‘Though he’s more interested in his fishing rod than their plamausing to be fair.’ The young priest nodded politely to Eva as he passed, claiming a small table, and taking out a well-thumbed book. His white collar stood stark against his dark shirt, but his weathered hands and sun-browned face suggested time spent outdoors rather than in cloistered study.

‘Been running this place long?’ Molly asked, taking another sip of her perfectly brewed tea.

‘Took over from Mam about five years ago,’ Eva said, absently rearranging the herbs in the tiny vase. ‘She ran it for twenty before that, and her mother for thirty before her.’ Her fingers stilled on the delicate white meadowsweet blooms. ‘Could have been a chef in Dublin – that’s what I trained for. But Dad got sick, god rest his soul, so I came home to help Mam and then …’ A shadow crossed her face, quickly replaced by her usual brightness. ‘Wasn’t the plan, but turned out to be the right thing. There’s something about being around people you’ve known all your life.’

‘You never wanted to leave again? After your father …’ Molly let the question hang, suddenly worried she was overstepping again.

Eva shrugged, the movement sending a loose curl bouncing against her cheek. ‘Thought about it. But by then I’d put my stamp on this place, started changing things up a bit – brought in some fancy techniques from my training, modernized Gran’s recipes just enough to keep them interesting.’ Pride colored her voice. ‘Turns out you can make a difference even in a tiny spot on the map.’ A timer dinged from behind the counter, and she glanced over her shoulder. ‘That’ll be the soda bread. Back in a sec.’

As Eva moved away between the tables, Molly found herself studying the café with renewed interest. What had seemed simply charming at first glance now revealed itself as a careful balance of tradition and innovation. The blue willow plates were classic, but they sat alongside modern, hand-thrown pottery. The menu board listed traditional Irish fare alongside items with a contemporary twist – Whiskey-glazed Bacon Tarts and Wild Nettle and Goat’s Cheese brioche.

Eva returned moments later, the scent of fresh bread following her like a fragrant shadow. ‘Sorry about that. Can’t let it go even a minute too long or the bottom burns.’

‘This building must be standing a long time,’ Molly asked, genuinely curious. ‘The stonework and everything …’

‘Yep, old as the village itself, nearly,’ Eva confirmed. ‘Used to be the milliner’s shop back when hats were a thing. Then it was a cobbler’s for a while. My great-grandmother bought it in the forties, when the old cobbler died without an heir.’ Her eyes crinkled with amusement. ‘They say she won it in a card game, but that might just be family legend.’

‘This whole village feels like it’s full of them,’ Molly enthused, glancing out the window at the square, where a pair of older men were engaged in what appeared to be a spirited debate beside the fountain.

‘Oh, if these walls could talk!’ Eva laughed. ‘Every corner of Golden Valley has seen something worth telling, to be fair. Like that fountain out there – it was a gift from a local lad who went off to make his fortune in Boston during the famine years. Came back rich as Croesus and built it as a thank-you to the village that raised him.’ She leaned forward slightly. ‘They say the love of his life waited fifteen years for him, never even looked at another fella the whole time he was gone. And hadn’t he gone off and married an American one in the meantime.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Sure, that’s men for you.’

Molly smiled.

‘But it’s not all romance and homecomings either,’ Eva continued, her voice dropping conspiratorially. ‘We had our fair share of scandal too. Back in the sixties, there was this huge falling out between two of the oldest families. Something about land boundaries and a disputed orchard. Half the village wouldn’t speak to the other half for nearly a decade.’

Molly’s attention sharpened at the mention of the orchard, but she kept her expression neutral. ‘Sounds serious.’

‘Ancient history now.’ Eva waved dismissively. ‘Though some of the oldies never forget. That’s village life – long memories.’ She gestured to Molly’s now-empty plate. ‘Another scone? Or maybe a slice of apple tart? Made fresh this morning with Goldenridge apples from up the road.’ Again, the mention sent a small jolt through Molly, but she managed a casual smile. ‘I couldn’t possibly. Another tea would be lovely though.’

She was keen to continue listening to the proprietor’s chatter. But more, she genuinely liked the woman. There was something irresistibly disarming about Eva’s openness, a quality that invited reciprocity despite Molly’s carefully maintained guardedness.

Having sorted the priest’s order, Eva returned moments later with a fresh brew. As she set it down, her gaze lingered on Molly’s face with open curiosity. ‘So, New York. Do you work in one of those glass skyscrapers then?’

‘I do,’ Molly admitted. ‘Thirty-fourth street. Marketing executive.’

‘So cool …’ Eva said dreamily.

Molly laughed, the sound surprising her with its genuineness. ‘Not really. Mostly endless meetings and too many emails. Not nearly as exciting as deciding the fate of the Christmas lights.’