Page 24 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Eva grinned, acknowledging the gentle tease. ‘Well now, don’t underestimate the gravity of festive illumination. Last year, Maureen Flynn – no relation to the orchard Flynns – hung those icicle lights upside down so they pointed to the sky instead of the ground. Caused such a tizzy you’d think she’d painted the church purple.’

The image made Molly laugh again, and she felt some of the tension she’d been carrying since her first local encounter begin to ease. She nodded. ‘My grandmother used to talk about the local celebrations around here actually. Summer festivals, that sort of thing.’

Eva’s face lit up. ‘Yep, we’re mad for celebrations in Golden Valley. Actually now that you say it, The Harvest Festival is coming up weekend after next – whole village turns out for it. We hang fairy lights in all the trees around the square, every shop puts out specially themed stuff, The Orchard Pub serves harvest cider that’s only brewed once a year.’ She gestured enthusiastically, nearly knocking over the tiny vase of herbs. ‘There’s a band and dancing in the square and everything, a market too.’

‘Sounds amazing,’ Molly said wistfully.

‘How long are you staying? You might still be here for it.’

She hesitated. ‘I’m … not entirely sure to be honest. I haven’t made any definite travel plans.’

Her intention was to come here, do the necessary and then head to Dublin for a bit. But that was before she realized she might have a hurdle to overcome to reach Aoife’s special tree.

‘Well, if you’re around, you have to come. I do special autumn-themed creations just for the festival.’ The door chimed again, admitting a rush of newcomers – a group of hikers, their faces flushed with exertion and crisp autumn air. Eva glanced over. ‘Duty calls again,’ she said, rising reluctantly. ‘Sure, I’ll leave you to it.’

Left alone with her thoughts and her tea, Molly gazed back out the window at the square with some satisfaction.

This was more like the Ireland her grandmother had described – not just the physical landscape, but the easy hospitality, the weaving of past and present in everyday conversation. She watched as the elderly men by the fountain concluded their debate with handshakes and parted ways, one heading toward the newsagent, the other toward the pharmacy. A woman passed with a basket of fresh flowers, pausing to chat with the doctor as he emerged from the café. Each interaction seemed meaningful, unhurried, part of a complex web of relationships that had evolved over time.

Molly sipped her tea slowly, savoring both the rich flavor and the moment of connection she’d just experienced. Aoife had always told her too that in Ireland, a cup of tea was never just a beverage – it was an invitation, a shared ritual.

For the first time, she felt a genuine sense of possibility. Eva’s café was like a bridge between the Golden Valley of her grandmother’s stories, and the real village before her.

And if Molly could find her way here, perhaps she could also find her way to the oak tree her grandmother had spoken of with such reverence.

Chapter 11

The café had since grown busier, with Eva moving efficiently between tables, yet still finding time for a quick joke or personal question with each customer. It was the kind of place where everyone was treated as a regular, even on their first visit.

As the café owner returned to clear her cup, Molly decided to brave it with a casual mention of yesterday’s encounter.

‘I met someone from that orchard you mentioned, I think,’ she said, aiming for nonchalance. ‘When I arrived off the bus yesterday morning, I accidentally knocked over some guy’s cart of apples with my suitcase.’

Eva’s eyebrows shot up, then a knowing smile spread across her face. ‘Ah, you’ve had the pleasure of Jack Flynn’s acquaintance so. Tall, dark and grumpy?’

Jack Flynn.

Molly nodded. ‘That’s him, I think. He seemed … very protective of his apples.’

‘Ha! Protective is one way of putting it,’ Eva tittered and put a hand on her hip. ‘Flynns have been growing apples in these parts since before anyone can remember and Jack treats those trees like they’re his children.’ She leaned her hip against Molly’s table, in no hurry despite the café’s increasing busyness. ‘Was he short with you? He can be with strangers, especially if his precious fruit is involved.’ She rolled her eyes.

‘A little,’ Molly admitted, carefully editing the encounter. ‘But I could hardly blame him, given the damage I’d caused. He was nice enough at first, but I got the impression he doesn’t warm to outsiders.’

Eva snorted, the sound unexpectedly unrefined against her otherwise gentle demeanor. ‘That’s putting it mildly. But look, don’t take it personally – Jack’s bark is worse than his bite.’ She glanced around, then lowered her voice a little. ‘Been through the ringer, to be fair. Lost both of his parents young – when he was only twelve, I think. His great-uncle Patrick raised him – distant relative from another town over but the only Flynn left until Jack was old enough to take over at Goldenridge.’

Something in Eva’s tone suggested a deeper history, and Molly found herself genuinely curious. ‘You know him well then?’

‘Sure, everyone knows everyone here,’ she replied with a small shrug. ‘But yeah, we were in school together. Jack was two years ahead of me, mind – quiet, always had dirt under his fingernails from helping Patrick at the orchard after classes.’ A fond smile softened her features. ‘Smart though – could have gone to university, had the points for it and everything. But he never wanted anything but those feckin’ apple trees.’

She shifted, adjusting her colorful bandana. ‘I remember once in school, our science class was supposed to track the growth of bean plants. Everyone else’s died within a week, but Jack’s not only lived – it produced actual beans. A real-life Jack and the Beanstalk! Ah, he just has this way with growing stuff, always has.’

Molly could almost picture him as a solemn-faced kid carefully tending a plant while other children lost interest. It humanized further the man she’d encountered in the rain.

‘His uncle must be proud of him, carrying on the family business,’ Molly prompted, hoping to learn more.

‘Great-uncle. Like I said, they’re barely blood relations really – Patrick is second cousin once-removed to Jack’s grandfather or something … but he’s Jack’s biggest champion. Though of course they’re both way too Irish to show it.’ Eva smiled fondly. ‘Patrick Flynn’s a living legend around here though – knows every secret of apple growing, could predict the harvest down to the bushel just by studying the spring blossoms. Handed over the reins to Jack about ten years ago, though he still runs a small farm shop there at weekends.’

Eva reached out absently to straighten the tiny vase of herbs. ‘It was a big deal when Patrick stepped back – everyone wondered if Jack would modernize or maybe sell the place to one of the bigger commercial outfits. Lot of pressure for a young lad in his twenties.’