Page 38 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Molly definitely hadn’t planned on becoming so entangled in village affairs when she’d arrived in Golden Valley. Her mission had been singular and specific: fulfill her grandmother’s final wish. Yet somehow, within days, she’d committed to help save a suspicious apple farmer’s business and, by extension, promote an entire Irish village.

As she eventually left the café and ambled back towards the hotel through the square now bathed in the golden light of approaching sunset, Molly’s marketing mind automatically filled with campaign concepts. Heritage varieties photographed against ancient stone walls. Jack’s hands – strong, capable – demonstrating the grafting techniques passed down through generations. The cider press in operation, capturing the rich amber liquid as it flowed from apples to barrel.

And perhaps, if she played her cards right, the ancient oak tree in all its glory, standing watch over the orchard as it had for centuries. The tree that had called her across an ocean, and still waited for her to fulfill a promise made at her grandmother’s bedside.

Well, if there was one thing the Harris family knew how to do, it was adapt to changing circumstances. Jack Flynn and his oak tree might have started as obstacles, but now they were becoming something else entirely – something she wasn’t quite ready to name, but couldn’t deny feeling.

Monday morning at eight, he’d said.

The thought sent an unexpected shiver of anticipation down Molly’s spine that had nothing at all to do with marketing plans, and everything to do with dark eyes that softened when speaking of ancient trees in morning light.

Chapter 19

Jack was at the orchard gate twenty minutes early on Monday, the morning dew still clinging to the grass as he paced the gravel path. The sun had barely cleared the eastern hills, painting the apple trees in soft gold light that caught on fruit-laden branches and turned ordinary leaves into stained glass.

He’d slept poorly all weekend, his mind churning with conflicted thoughts about Molly Harris and this madcap marketing scheme the entire village seemed determined to thrust upon him.

The route was already mapped out in his head, but the prospect of showing a stranger – particularly this stranger, with her too-observant eyes – around his family’s legacy left his stomach tight with something that wasn’t quite dread but wasn’t comfort either.

He checked his watch again. Seven-fifty. She’d be here soon, if she kept her word. Part of him half-expected her not to show, to have second thoughts about the entire arrangement or make excuses since she’d been so expertly strong-armed into it all when she was supposed to be here on holiday.

Personal obligation, he’d remembered her saying that first morning in the rain and his curiosity pricked. Wasn’t this yet another obligation?

A flash of movement at the lane’s end caught his attention. Molly appeared, walking briskly up the path from the front entrance gates, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. He straightened, watching her approach with reluctant curiosity. Long gone was that city polish of their first meeting; today she wore jeans, sturdy hiking boots, and a red sweater that brought out the color of her eyes even more. She carried a small leather notebook tucked under one arm.

‘Morning,’ she called as she drew closer. ‘Hope I’m not late.’

‘Right on time,’ Jack replied, his tone carefully neutral despite the unexpected leap in his pulse at the sight of her. She looked … right, somehow, against the backdrop of the orchard’s autumn colors. Less the corporate threat he’d first imagined and more like someone who might actually understand what this place was all about.

‘OK if I do a bit of filming?’ she asked gesturing unnecessarily with her phone. ‘For social media stuff. Nothing too intrusive, I promise.’

‘OK. Just don’t expect me to start yapping into the camera like an eejit,’ he warned, and was gratified to see her smile a little.

‘Not a problem. So, Mr Flynn,’ she said jauntily, ‘maybe start by telling me all there is to know about apples.’

He nodded, turning toward the orchard entrance to hide the flush creeping up his neck. ‘We’ll start with the heritage varieties, then work our way to the newer sections.’

He held the gate open, the metal hinges creaking softly as Molly passed through. She moved carefully, eyes already scanning the neat rows of trees that stretched across the hillside in geometrically perfect lines. Jack followed, hyperaware of her presence as they walked side by side down the central path.

‘Orchard’s divided into seven sections,’ he explained, falling into the familiar rhythm of describing his life’s work. ‘Each with different varieties suited to the particular soil and exposure of that area.’

‘How many types do you grow?’ she asked.

‘Twenty-three total. Fifteen heritage varieties that date back generations, five modern cultivars for commercial viability, and three experimental crosses that we’re still evaluating.’

She nodded, taking brief notes.

Jack gestured toward the nearest row of trees. ‘These are Cavan Russets. They’ve been in Irish orchards since the 1800s, maybe earlier. Not much to look at –’ he plucked one from a low-hanging branch and handed it to her – ‘but the flavor is complex. Honey notes with a sharp finish.’

Molly accepted the fruit, turning it in her hands. The russet apple was mottled brown-gold, with none of the polished perfection of supermarket varieties. She raised it to her nose, inhaling deeply, and Jack found himself watching her face, oddly invested in her reaction.

‘Smells amazing,’ she said softly, the genuine appreciation in her voice loosening something tight in Jack’s chest. ‘Like … honey and cloves.’

‘Good nose,’ he said, surprised. ‘Most people miss the spice notes.’

They continued down the row, Jack pointing out different trees, explaining the challenges and rewards of each variety. To his surprise, (and still lingering suspicion) Molly asked intelligent questions – about pollination patterns, disease resistance, and the relationship between soil composition and flavor development. Not surface-level questions but ones that suggested genuine interest in the science behind his work.

He truly hoped he wasn’t making a mistake here and giving away all his secrets. It was true what they said about fools and women.