Page 53 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Anna turned to Brid. ‘Your friend, Mrs Donnelly, is looking for more towels in the Hawthorn Room, Mam.’

Brid turned away from the photograph. ‘I’ll sort it,’ she said, looking conspiratorially at Molly. ‘She likes to reminisce about the days when towels were proper towels, not these modern thin yokes.’

As Brid moved away, Anna gave Molly another smile. ‘Honestly. Thanks again for stepping in tonight. You’ve been a tremendous help.’

‘Not a problem,’ she replied, her mind still half-captured by the photograph. ‘I should probably go get ready for tonight.’

Anna nodded. ‘You’ll enjoy it I’d say. The band’s brilliant and the craic is mighty.’ Her smile turned conspiratorial. ‘Jack Flynn might even be persuaded to play a tune or two in the pub after-hours. He’s quite talented on the guitar, though he’d die before admitting it.’

The mention of Jack added another layer of complexity to Molly’s already tumultuous thoughts. Jack, a musician? The man had hidden depths she’d barely uncovered.

As Molly ascended the steps, the weight of the photograph’s revelation followed her. Her grandmother had been here in the Glen Arms Hotel, had breathed this same air, had been young and full of dreams in this place before life took her in unexpected directions.

The thought was both comforting and unsettling.

Especially since unlike Brid it seemed, Molly knew exactly the direction Aoife’s life beyond Golden Valley had taken.

Chapter 27

In her room, Molly perched on the armchair by the window, her phone almost incongruous against the traditional backdrop.

Outside, Golden Valley was still transforming for the festival, windows lighting up across the village square, the distant sound of music drifting up from below as the band started up. The screen brightened as Cole’s call connected, his familiar face appearing with a wide grin that immediately eased something tight in Molly’s chest.

Her mind still hummed with the implications of the photograph – tangible proof of her grandmother’s life here, of her friendship with Brid. She hadn’t expected to find such direct evidence of Aoife’s past so casually displayed on the hotel wall and wondered how on earth she’d spent all this time here without noticing it. But then again, Molly only ever knew her as Nan, not as a young Irish woman full of her own hopes and dreams.

‘Hey,’ her brother greeted, his voice slightly tinny through the phone’s speakers. He was freshly showered, hair still damp, wearing a team-branded hoodie that suggested he was on his way to hockey practice. ‘How’s life in the land of shamrocks and leprechauns?’

‘Ha! Neither of which I’ve encountered yet,’ Molly replied with a smile, settling more comfortably against the windowsill.

‘Please tell me you’re not holed up in your room working,’ Cole said, severity creasing his brow as, behind her on the desk, he caught sight of her open laptop and notes from her work on the Goldenridge campaign yesterday. ‘This was supposed to be a relaxing retreat, Mol.’

‘I’ll have you know I’m actually headed out to the harvest festival in exactly—’ she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece ‘—five minutes. So make it quick.’

Cole leaned closer to the camera, his expression growing more serious. ‘Pops and I were both just wondering … have you made it to the magic tree yet?’

The question sobered Molly afresh. ‘Not yet,’ she admitted, absently twisting a strand of hair around her finger – a nervous habit she thought she’d outgrown years ago. ‘Like I said, it’s … complicated. The oak is on private property and the owner …’ She shifted, adjusting the phone so Cole couldn’t see the flush she felt rising to her cheeks. ‘He’s … warming up to me.’

Cole’s eyebrows shot up, a knowing grin spreading across his face. ‘The angry hot farmer?’

‘And don’t kill me –’ Molly winced, ignoring the remark – ‘but I’m actually helping him with some marketing stuff.’

‘I knew it!’ Her brother harrumphed, the sound echoing slightly in his minimalist apartment. ‘Seriously, you just can’t help yourself, can you? Workaholic doesn’t even begin to describe it.’

‘It’s nothing, honestly; just a few projections for a bank loan and a social media thing. I’ll send it to you when it’s done, actually; maybe you could give it a share.’

It was impossible to explain to Cole about the true task she’d undertaken for Goldenridge, about the hours spent with Jack learning the orchard’s history, about the moment in the cider barn that had almost tipped into something more. Her brother knew her too well – would see immediately how entangled Molly’s heart was becoming with what should have been a simple mission.

‘And this is all part of your charm offensive? Mol, haven’t you considered just telling the guy the truth?’ Cole suggested, his tone gentler now. ‘That we’re just trying to fulfill Nan’s last wish?’

She sighed, turning to gaze out the window at the village square below, where the last light of day had given way to the soft blue of evening. ‘Of course I have. But like I said, he’s suspicious of outsiders, and now it seems wrong to suddenly reveal that I’m not just a tourist like I told him. Besides,’ she added, ‘there’s more to it now. I’ve sort of … gotten entangled with the locals too.’

‘Entangled how?’ Cole pressed, clearly sensing her evasiveness.

‘Just helping out. Making friends even.’ Molly kept her tone deliberately casual, brushing past specifics, like her fondness for Patrick and her growing feelings for Jack. ‘There’s a woman who runs the local café – Eva, same age as us. She’s funny, direct, no patience for nonsense. Makes incredible baked goods. I’ve put on about ten pounds since I got here.’

Cole guffawed. ‘She single by any chance?’

‘Famously so, according to herself.’ Molly grinned, relieved at the change of subject. ‘Used to go out with some famous hurler apparently, but is now looking for, and I quote, “a good strong man who doesn’t need someone to mammy him”. ’