Page 39 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘The commercial orchards focus purely on appearance and shelf life,’ he explained as they paused beside a gnarled tree whose branches bowed under the weight of small, misshapen fruit. ‘Perfect red spheres that look good under supermarket lights but taste like nothing.’ He couldn’t keep the disdain from his voice. ‘These won’t win any beauty contests, but they’ve got character.’

She snapped some photos, then crouched to capture footage of fallen fruit nestled in the grass beneath. ‘Character sells, you know. Especially these days. People are tired of perfection – they want authenticity.’

Jack watched her work, the morning light catching in her hair as she shifted angles. ‘That’s what Patrick said.’

She glanced up, a smile quirking one corner of her mouth. ‘Great minds.’

They moved deeper into the orchard, the morning sun warming the air and releasing the complex perfume of ripe apples. Fallen leaves crunched beneath their boots, and somewhere in the distance a pheasant called, its harsh cry cutting through the stillness. Jack found himself relaxing despite his lingering reservations, the familiar surroundings and the rhythm of explanation soothing his wariness.

At a junction between two sections, he paused before a tree that stood apart from the orderly rows. ‘This is one of our oldest,’ he said, resting his palm against the gnarled trunk. ‘Planted by my great-great-grandfather. The variety is nearly extinct now – Bloody Butcher, named for the deep red flesh. But modern consumers don’t want an apple that bleeds when you bite it.’

‘May I?’ Molly asked, raising her phone to take some footage.

Jack nodded, stepping back to give her room. She circled the tree slowly, capturing it from different angles, her movements deliberate and respectful. Not like the Crest goons who’d strode through his orchard with measuring eyes, seeing only acreage and potential profit margins.

‘The tree needs careful handling,’ he continued, surprising himself with how much he wanted to share. ‘We’ve grafted from it several times to preserve the line, but there’s something about this original stock – the apples have a depth the younger trees don’t match.’

‘Like wine from older grape vines,’ she suggested, lowering her camera.

‘Exactly like that.’ Jack studied her face, finding unexpected pleasure in her understanding.

‘My grandfather likes wine,’ she explained. ‘Always talking about terroir and stuff. I guess the same principles apply across different fruits.’

Jack led her toward the grafting shed then, a small structure nestled between orchard sections where the delicate work of propagation took place. Inside, benches lined the walls, tools hung in precise arrangements, and bundles of carefully labeled scions sat in dampened cloth, waiting for spring’s work.

‘This is where the real magic happens,’ he said, unable to keep pride from his voice as he explained the process of joining different apple varieties to rootstock. ‘Patrick says it’s a bit like matchmaking – you need to understand the characteristics of each partner, the strengths and weaknesses they’ll bring to the union.’

Molly leaned against the workbench, occasionally filming but mostly listening as Jack demonstrated how a small section of one variety could be skillfully attached to another, creating a tree that combined the best attributes of both. His hands moved with practiced grace as he described the technique, fingers tracing the paths where cambium layers must meet to create a successful graft.

‘It’s incredible,’ she said when he finished. ‘All that knowledge, passed down through generations. You can’t get that from a textbook.’

‘No,’ Jack agreed, surprisingly pleased by her appreciation. ‘Patrick taught me, just as his ancestors taught him. There’s a feel to it you develop over time.’

They stepped back outside, the cooler autumn air a relief after the close warmth of the shed. Jack checked his watch – they’d spent longer there than he’d intended, drawn out by Molly’s interested questions and his own unexpected enthusiasm for sharing his craft. As they walked the path between orchard sections, a flash of white caught Jack’s eye. A hawthorn tree grew at the junction between two apple rows, its gnarled branches dotted with the last of the season’s berries, bright red against dark leaves.

‘Better not cut that one down,’ Molly commented, a light smile playing at her lips. ‘Fairies won’t be happy.’

Jack blinked, studying her. ‘That’s … not something tourists usually know.’

She shrugged, her eyes darting away momentarily. ‘Another tip from my grandmother.’

He nodded, satisfied. ‘Well, true enough, most farmers would have removed it long ago,’ Jack admitted. ‘Takes water and nutrients from the productive trees. But my great-great-grandfather refused to touch it, and Patrick after him.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Some superstitions make sense.’

They continued walking, but Jack found himself watching Molly more closely now. There was something about her casual reference to the hawthorn – not delivered like a fact learned from a guidebook, but with the offhand familiarity of someone raised on such stories.

Another small piece of the puzzle that was Molly Harris.

A breeze stirred the trees around them, sending a shower of golden leaves spiraling down. One landed in her hair, and before he could think better of it, Jack reached out to pluck it away. His fingers brushed against the dark strands, and he was startled by their softness.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, withdrawing his hand as if burned. ‘You had a—’ He gestured vaguely.

‘Oh.’ Her cheeks flushed slightly. ‘Thank you.’

An awkward silence fell between them, the easy rhythm of their conversation suddenly disrupted. Jack cleared his throat, pointing toward a particularly fine specimen of Cox’s Orange Pippin.

‘This one’s at peak ripeness now,’ he said, his voice rougher than intended. ‘The perfect balance of sugar and acid.’

He reached up to carefully twist a fruit from its stem, the motion practiced and gentle to avoid damaging the tree. As he handed the apple to Molly, their fingers touched, and Jack felt a jolt of awareness that had nothing to do with apples or marketing campaigns.