Page 29 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘Hey there,’ Molly replied, trying to mask her nervousness with a bright smile. ‘Your shop is lovely.’

The man nodded acknowledgment but offered nothing more, his brown eyes watching her with careful assessment. Unlike Jack’s outright suspicion, his gaze held more measured curiosity.

Molly moved to the table of apples, giving herself time to gather her thoughts. She picked up a small, golden-russet fruit, its skin rough against her palm. ‘Is this the Pippin? I’ve read about them but never had the chance to try one.’

‘Heritage variety, those don’t travel well now,’ Patrick said, his voice warming slightly at the question. ‘Most commercial growers won’t touch ’em – too finicky, too fragile for supply chains. But there’s nothing that matches their flavor all the same.’ He moved from behind the table with careful steps, coming to stand opposite her. ‘Try it,’ he suggested, gesturing to the fruit. ‘Best way to understand an apple is to taste it.’

Molly bit into it, surprised by the resistance of its skin before it yielded with a satisfying crunch. The flesh was dense and aromatic, with a complexity she’d never experienced in supermarket varieties – sweet honey notes followed by a sharp, refreshing acidity, finishing with something almost nutty.

‘Oh,’ she said, eyes widening involuntarily. ‘That’s incredible.’

A smile flickered across Patrick’s face, softening the weathered contours. ‘That’s what real apples taste like. Not those waxy yokes they grow for looks.’

Molly took another bite, savoring the flavors. ‘I can see why you keep growing them, even if they’re challenging.’

‘Some things are worth the extra trouble,’ Patrick said, his eyes never leaving her face. There was an assessor’s quality to his gaze, as if he were cataloging her reactions against some internal standard.

Molly moved around the table, examining the other varieties. ‘Do you have many trees of these heritage types?’

‘More than most orchards these days to be fair,’ Patrick replied. ‘The boss is stubborn about keeping the old varieties going, even when it would be easier to switch to modern stuff.’ There was unmistakable pride in his voice. ‘Says the world doesn’t need another Pink Lady, but might just need the last remaining Cavan Russets.’

‘He sounds … passionate about preserving tradition,’ Molly said carefully, testing the waters.

Patrick nodded, reaching out to rearrange a display of small honey jars. ‘The boy was born with apple sap in his veins, I swear it. Could tell varieties apart by the blossom alone by the time he was seven.’

Molly moved toward the shelves of bottled cider, running her fingers over the embossed labels. ‘Eva at the café in town mentioned your harvest special cider is something special,’ she said, changing the subject to safer ground. ‘Will you be selling it at the festival next week?’

‘Indeed we will.’ Patrick followed her, his movements deliberate but graceful for a man his age. ‘Special batch just for the occasion – only released once a year.’

‘Sounds amazing,’ Molly said honestly. ‘Eva described the festival as magical – lights in the trees, music, the whole village celebrating.’

‘Been that way for generations,’ Patrick confirmed, leaning slightly against the shelf. ‘Tipp knows how to honor the harvest. Always has.’ He studied her for a moment. ‘Your first time in these parts, is it?’

‘First time to Golden Valley, yes,’ Molly answered carefully. ‘My grandmother was from around here, though she left a long time ago. Didn’t talk much about any relatives,’ she added quickly. ‘But she always spoke of Golden Valley with fondness. Especially during autumn – said there was nowhere on earth more beautiful when the leaves were turning.’

Patrick nodded approvingly. ‘Your grandmother knew her stuff, so. Autumn’s indeed when the Golden Vale shows its true colors.’

Molly moved toward a display of jars labeled Apple Blossom Honey. She picked one up, examining the contents.

‘Wild honeybees have lived in the hollow trees at the eastern edge for as long as anyone can remember,’ he told her. ‘We just leave them to their work.’

As they talked, Molly found herself genuinely interested in the orchard’s operations. Patrick’s initial reserve continued to warm as he explained how certain tree varieties were grafted to preserve their lineage, how the honey’s flavor changed depending on which blossoms the bees favored in a given year, how the cider press still used methods that had remained essentially unchanged for centuries.

‘The festival must be a great opportunity to showcase all of this,’ she observed, gesturing to the products surrounding them. ‘Do you get lots of visitors to the farm usually?’

‘Just at weekends,’ Patrick said, a note of ambivalence in his voice. ‘My great-nephew worries about commercializing too much. Says he doesn’t want the place to become a “tourist attraction”. ’ The quotation marks were audible in his tone.

‘There’s a big difference between commercializing and sharing heritage,’ Molly mused thoughtfully. ‘In my work – marketing – I often help traditional businesses highlight what makes them special without compromising their values.’

Patrick’s head tilted slightly, interest piqued. ‘How so?’

‘Well,’ Molly said, warming to the subject, ‘for instance, these heritage varieties have stories behind them. If it were me, I’d create small cards with each apple’s history – where it originated, how long Goldenridge has grown it, what makes it unique. People connect with stories.’ She gestured toward the cider bottles. ‘Or maybe offering guided tastings that explain the traditional pressing methods, why they matter, how they affect flavor.’

She moved back to the central table, automatically rearranging a few apples in their display bowls. ‘You’re not just selling fruit or cider after all; you’re selling centuries of knowledge, a connection to something authentic in a world where that’s increasingly rare.’

Patrick watched her with intensifying interest as Molly continued, unable to help herself. This wasn’t any kind of play to get him on side, she was genuinely passionate about this stuff.

‘The key is to educate visitors rather than simply sell to them. Help them understand why preserving these varieties matters, why traditional methods produce superior results. People pay more for something when they understand its true value.’ Her professional instincts had well and truly taken over, as she found herself imagining how Goldenridge might better tell its story. ‘You could even—’