Page 50 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Still, with work on the business plan helping to focus her efforts, Molly had pretty much all she needed from Goldenridge for a social media campaign, and had already compiled a visual montage incorporating all of the elements she thought pertinent about the orchard. And would of course have plenty more material from this weekend’s festival to supplement and highlight Golden Valley itself.

Putting them ‘on the map’ might be pushing it, but Molly would do her best to honor the promise she’d made and try to convey the essence of this wonderful place that had so quickly captured her own heart.

Now, as Eva popped back in to the café to attend to customers, Molly’s hands moved automatically among the flowers, selecting, arranging, adjusting with an intuitive sense of balance and harmony. Purple loosestrife rose from a foundation of feathery greens, complemented by the bold faces of late-season sunflowers and the delicate spikes of wild lavender.

‘You’ve an eye for it all right,’ Eva observed, coming back out.

Aoife had taught her to balance colors and textures, to let each bloom speak for itself while contributing to the whole. ‘I’ve always thought store-bought flower arrangements are too perfect to be interesting.’

‘Exactly. Nature doesn’t work that way.’ She winked. ‘But maybe don’t mention that to Leah the florist tonight if you see her.’

The square grew more animated as evening deepened, shadows lengthening across the cobblestones while the golden light intensified. A young band began setting up by the makeshift stage – a converted truck trailer situated at the bottom of the square.

‘This festival’s ancient, you know,’ Eva chattered, moving to sit beside Molly with a basket of ribbon scraps. ‘Pre-Christian even. It was a celebration of harvest, obviously, but also preparation for winter – last chance for trading, marriages to be arranged, or settling debts before the dark months.’

‘So not just about the apple harvest?’ Molly asked, selecting a sprig of rosemary to add a touch of fragrance to her arrangement.

‘The apples came later, when the English introduced their orchards.’ Eva cut lengths of burlap ribbon to tie around the completed arrangements. ‘But they fit right into the older traditions too. Symbols of abundance, fertility, eternal life when you cut them crosswise.’ She demonstrated with her fingers. ‘You know how the seeds at the core form a pentagram? Ancient pagans considered that protective magic.’

Molly was intrigued. ‘I never knew that.’

‘The cider was originally part of the fertility rituals actually,’ her friend continued, with a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘Young couples would share the special blend on festival night, then disappear into the orchards for privacy. Nine months later, there’d be a crop of festival babies.’

‘That’s hardly still part of the tradition,’ Molly chuckled dubiously.

‘Not officially.’ Eva winked. ‘But the harvest still works its magic. Half the village has birthdays suspiciously close to nine months after the festival.’

As they worked, villagers stopped to chat, each interaction reinforcing Molly’s growing sense of belonging. The proprietor of The Glen Remedy asked about her stay, and Tommy the bread baker from earlier, or ‘the competition’ as Eva jokingly teased him, paused to admire their flower arrangements, after packing up his own stall. Each conversation flowed more easily than the last, references to local landmarks and village personalities no longer requiring explanation.

Molly found herself relaxing into a rhythm that felt both new and familiar – the give and take of small-town life where everyone’s business intertwined like the stems in the flower arrangements, separate but connected in ways that created something wonderful in their totality.

‘Oh, there’s the Flynns now,’ Eva said, nodding toward the far side of the square.

Molly’s gaze followed. Jack, in his worn leather jacket, stood beside a half-assembled wooden stall, hammer in hand as he secured a panel emblazoned with the Goldenridge logo. The evening light caught in his dark hair and gilded the strong line of his profile as he leaned to check his work. Patrick moved more slowly beside him, passing tools when needed but mostly supervising as he leaned on his walking stick and chatted with neighbors and friends.

As if sensing her gaze, Jack looked up then, his eyes finding Molly’s across the busy square with an immediacy that suggested he’d been aware of her presence all along. For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the distance between them filled with unspoken conversations, with the memory of that almost-connection in a rain-surrounded barn.

He nodded once, the beginnings of a hesitant smile softening his features before Patrick said something that drew his attention away. The brief exchange left Molly’s heart beating a touch faster, her fingers momentarily stilled among the flower stems.

Did the smile mean things had gone well at the bank? Or had it been meant for her alone?

‘Ye two seem to have sorted out your differences anyway,’ Eva observed, her tone deliberately casual, though her eyes missed nothing.

Molly resumed her work, focusing intently on balancing a sprig of goldenrod against the deeper purple of wild aster. ‘We’ve reached a … professional understanding,’ she said, aiming for the same casualness, though not quite achieving it.

‘Is that what they’re calling it these days?’

‘Eva …’ Molly warned, though she couldn’t suppress a small smile.

‘I’m just saying, the man’s actually brushed his hair for once,’ Eva countered, tying a perfect bow around one of the completed arrangements. ‘Now if we could just get rid of that manky ’oul jacket we’d be on to a winner.’

Molly laughed, while the heat in her cheeks intensified, betraying her despite her best efforts. ‘We’ve been working hard on the marketing stuff. Stuff that you initiated by the way. That’s all.’

‘Yeah.’ Eva’s skepticism was palpable. ‘And I’m the Queen of Tara.’

Molly shook her head, unwilling to examine the complicated emotions that Jack Flynn stirred in her – attraction certainly, but also guilt for the secret she still kept, fear of what he might say when she eventually requested access to the oak tree.

The square transformed completely as dusk deepened into evening. Workers had finished hanging strings of lights that now twinkled into life. Oil lanterns were lit and placed on tables, their golden glow creating pools of warmth against the fading darkness.