Page 43 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Now that was truly ad-worthy Molly thought, swooning a little.

He moved deeper into the space, his footsteps echoing slightly in the vast room. The rain’s rhythm intensified, creating a natural percussion overhead that somehow made the space feel smaller, more intimate. Water slipped through a crack in one corner, dropping with precision into a strategically placed bucket.

‘I started making cider here when I was sixteen,’ he said, running a hand along a barrel’s curved side with the casual intimacy of long acquaintanceship. ‘Patrick showed me how to judge when the fermentation was complete by sound alone. Said a good cider-maker’s ears were as important as his taste buds.’

‘How do you tell when it’s ready?’ Molly asked, genuinely curious. She followed him past rows of barrels marked with chalk notations – dates, variety names, cryptic symbols that must hold meaning to the initiated.

‘The bubbling changes pitch.’ His voice had dropped to match the hushed atmosphere of the barn. ‘Gets slower, more deliberate. If you’re paying attention, the cider tells you when it’s ready.’ A fleeting smile softened his features. ‘It’s like listening to the apples’ final song.’

The poetry of the phrase surprised her. Jack Flynn, with his gruff exterior and suspicious nature, hadn’t struck her as a man who thought in metaphors. Yet here, surrounded by the fruits of his labor, something in him always loosened.

‘Sounds like your marketing campaign just wrote itself,’ she said, smiling.

He chuckled. ‘Maybe I should get you to come with me to the bank then.’

‘The bank?’

He nodded. ‘Another meeting on Friday; the regional manager from town visits only once a month. I’ve been trying to get them to approve a loan. It’s not looking great, to be honest.’ She knew it was killing him to admit this. ‘The previous manager knew me since we were boys,’ Jack continued, his voice low. ‘His father and mine played football together. But for the latest guy, business is business and the numbers just don’t …’ He trailed off, jaw tightening. ‘The numbers don’t support the kind of leverage we need.’

Molly remained quiet, sensing he needed to let it out, more than seek advice.

‘The irrigation system needs a complete overhaul,’ he told her, pacing a short line between barrels. ‘Three tractors need major repairs. The processing equipment has parts so old they need to be custom-made now.’ His hand raked through his hair, leaving it standing in damp spikes. ‘And that’s before we even talk about the roof on this place, or the new planting we need to do in the south section.’

Molly’s professional mind immediately began calculating, assessing possibilities. ‘Could you phase the repairs somehow? Prioritize what’s absolutely critical for this season’s harvest and next year’s—’

‘We’ve been “phasing” for three years,’ he interrupted, frustration edging his voice. ‘Patching instead of fixing or postponing and making do. There’s a point where that approach costs more than doing it properly would have in the first place.’ He exhaled sharply. ‘We’re well past that point now. And I’m all out of ideas.’

He turned away, but not before Molly caught the flash of pain in his eyes. This wasn’t just business concern; this was deeply personal anguish. Jack Flynn wasn’t merely worried about profits or production; he was terrified of failing the legacy he’d been entrusted to protect.

‘What about Patrick? Surely he has some ideas?’ she asked gently.

Jack shook his head. ‘He doesn’t know how bad it is. I’ve kept the worst of it from him.’ His voice dropped even lower. ‘He’d offer his retirement savings in a heartbeat, but I can’t – I won’t take that from him. The man’s earned his peace.’

Molly leaned against a sturdy wooden post, watching him move among his barrels with ease until he grabbed two glasses from a small shelf; sturdy, hand-blown specimens with gently curved sides.

‘Fancy a taste?’ He arranged the glasses on top of an upturned barrel that served as a makeshift table, then selected a long copper instrument that reminded Molly of an oversized turkey baster. ‘The thief,’ he explained, catching her curious glance. ‘For extracting samples without disturbing it.’

Jack approached a barrel marked with a white chalk X, inserted the narrow end of the thief through a small bunghole, and drew up a column of liquid. With practiced precision, he dispensed amber fluid into two glasses, the cider catching the lantern light as it flowed.

‘First pressing of the season,’ he said, offering her one. ‘Still young, but promising.’

Molly accepted the glass, noting how the cider’s color shifted with the changing angle of light – honey to amber to deep gold. She raised it to her nose first, inhaling the complex bouquet. Apple, certainly, but layered with notes of caramel, vanilla, something almost spicy that reminded her of cloves.

‘I always smell before I taste,’ she said, aware of his eyes on her. ‘Pops, my grandfather, says ninety percent of what we think is taste actually comes through the nose.’

Jack nodded. ‘Sounds like a man who knows his gargle.’

Molly took a careful sip, letting the liquid linger on her tongue. The cider was alive with flavor – crisp apple undercut by earthy tannins, a pleasant acidity balanced by subtle sweetness, and a finish that evolved even as she swallowed. Her brow furrowed slightly as she considered the complexity.

‘What do you think?’ he asked, his voice quieter now, almost intimate in the rain-muffled space.

‘It’s like … drinking autumn itself,’ Molly answered honestly. ‘But …’ she hesitated, unsure of whether her observation would be welcome.

‘But?’ His eyebrows lifted slightly, more curious than offended.

She took another thoughtful sip. ‘I wonder if it might benefit from a touch more sweetness. Not sugar,’ she added quickly, seeing his expression. ‘Maybe honey? Sweetness into the bones, rather than just on the surface.’

Jack froze mid-sip, glass halfway to his lips. His eyes fixed on her face with sudden intensity, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘What did you just say?’