Page 52 of The Apple Cider Orchard

The couple nodded appreciatively, the husband already asking about the best lake scenic spots as they ascended the stairs. Molly answered with suggestions she’d gleaned from her own explorations.

Brid stood perfectly still, her lined face composed in an expression of puzzled concentration. She hadn’t moved from the doorway, her eyes following Molly with the intensity of someone trying to recall an elusive memory.

‘Mam,’ Anna called, breaking Brid’s focus. ‘You’re blocking the passage. Come in or go out, but don’t stand there like an eejit.’

Brid moved forward with the fluid grace that belied her years, her gaze still returning to Molly with distracted frequency. She approached the desk where Anna was entering data into the computer, but her attention remained divided.

‘Committee meeting ran late,’ she explained, setting her handbag on a small table beside the desk. ‘Betty O’Toole wanted to discuss parking, and you know what she’s like when she’s on her soapbox.’

Anna made a noncommittal sound, her fingers flying over the keyboard with practiced efficiency. ‘Was anything actually resolved, or was it just the usual arguments going nowhere?’

‘We’re using the church grounds for overflow tomorrow,’ Brid replied, then paused and looked back toward the stairs. ‘That girl really reminds me of someone,’ she said, her voice dropping but still audible in the small lobby. ‘The American one. But I just can’t put my finger on it.’

Anna glanced up from the computer screen. ‘Half the tourists remind you of someone, Mam. Remember that Canadian fella you were certain was your cousin Michael’s grandson?’

‘That was different,’ Brid protested. ‘This is …’ She trailed off. ‘There’s something in the way she moves, the tilt of her head, even. It’s just so familiar.’

Anna sighed, smoothly changing the subject. ‘Did you bring the festival programs? We should put them on the counter.’

Brid reluctantly turned her attention to her daughter, extracting a stack of colorful brochures from her handbag. ‘Fresh off the printer. Added a special mention of Goldenridge sponsors too, thanks to advice from our marketing expert.’ She nodded again toward the stairs and a now-absent Molly.

The check-in rush gradually subsided as the grandfather clock struck eight, its resonant chimes filling the lobby with sonorous dignity. Most new arrivals had now settled into their rooms, leaving only the occasional latecomer to disturb the newly established calm. As Molly reappeared downstairs to check if Anna needed anything else, Brid told her she’d gone to check on dinner service in the kitchen.

‘You’ve been a godsend tonight,’ she said, studying her. ‘Anna doesn’t like to admit when she’s overwhelmed.’

‘Happy to help,’ Molly replied. ‘It’s nice to feel useful.’

Brid’s shrewd eyes seemed to be studying her. ‘You’ve settled in well here, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. It feels …’ Molly hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t reveal too much. ‘Familiar, somehow. Comfortable.’

‘Golden Valley has that effect on a lot of people,’ Brid observed. ‘Especially those with Tipp blood, no matter how distant. It calls them home, in a way.’

The comment struck far closer to truth than Brid could know. Molly nodded noncommittally and headed back toward the stairs.

The movement brought her face-to-face with one of the old photographs she hadn’t noticed before. Mounted a few steps from the bottom in a simple wooden frame, it showed a woman she now recognized as a much younger Brid – perhaps twenty? – standing arm-in-arm with another young woman beneath a Harvest Festival banner.

Both wore bright dresses adorned with autumn leaves, flower chains on their heads, their faces alight with laughter and youth. The other girl was slender and dark-haired, her features blurred slightly by the photograph’s age but beautiful in a delicate, serious way that contrasted with her joyful expression.

Molly’s heart stilled in her chest. She knew that face – had seen it in family albums, in the framed portrait that had stood on her grandmother’s bedside table until the day she died. Younger than in any photograph she had ever seen, but unmistakably Aoife Brennan, before she became Aoife Harris.

‘I was Harvest Queen,’ Brid’s voice said close behind her, making her start a little. ‘What year it was I couldn’t tell you, but a long time ago now, that’s for sure.’

Molly swallowed hard, forcing herself to maintain a neutral expression as she turned to face Brid. ‘Looks like you were having fun,’ she managed, her voice surprisingly steady despite the tumult inside her.

‘And that’s my old friend, my best friend,’ the older woman continued, her eyes fixed on the photograph with the dewy-eyed focus of someone looking into the past. ‘We were inseparable in those days.’

‘What happened to her?’ Molly asked, the question emerging before she could consider its wisdom. ‘Your friend?’

Brid’s expression clouded slightly. ‘She left Golden Valley not long after that picture was taken. Went to America, we heard eventually. We lost touch over the years – ’course, this was well before the internet or cheaper international calls.’ She sighed, the sound heavy with old regrets. ‘Life takes people in different directions.’

Molly nodded, unable to trust her voice. The photograph seemed to pulse with significance, a visual confirmation of the very connection she’d come here to honor. Her grandmother had stood in this very building, had even laughed with the woman beside her, had been part of the festival Molly herself was now helping to prepare. The realization made her feel simultaneously more authentic and more fraudulent – her presence here both a homecoming and a deception.

Should she say something to Brid? Maybe tell her …

‘There you are.’ Anna’s voice broke the moment as she returned to the reception area. She smiled at Molly. ‘I can’t thank you enough for your help. Go on away now and enjoy yourself after all your hard work.’

Molly nodded. ‘A pleasure.’