Page 54 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘Good strong man – check,’ her brother quipped, his interest clearly piqued. ‘What else does this Eva do besides baking and setting high standards?’

‘She’s addicted to real-estate renovation TV shows, coaches her niece’s camogie team, knows the entire village. Has a laugh that makes everyone in range smile automatically.’ Molly found herself warming to the topic.

‘Got a picture?’

‘I’m not showing you creeper shots of my new friend!’ Molly laughed. ‘But if you like, I’ll casually mention my charming, pro athlete brother to her sometime. Test the waters.’

He grinned. ‘You do that. Though I don’t know what good it’ll do, since you’re coming home next week,’ he pointed out, and the thought of leaving Golden Valley sent an unexpected pang through Molly’s chest. ‘Aren’t you?’ Cole’s expression turned more serious. ‘From the way you’re talking about the place, it almost sounds like you’re putting down roots.’

The observation struck uncomfortably close to truth. Molly glanced around the cozy room with its handcrafted furniture and views across the lake, thinking of the connections she’d formed in such a short space of time – Eva’s cheery friendship, Anna’s quiet warmth, Patrick’s gentle wisdom, Jack’s complicated pull on her heart.

Even Brid’s scrutiny had begun to feel like a form of belonging.

‘I’m here to do what Nan asked,’ she said firmly, as much to remind herself as to answer Cole. ‘Everything else is just temporary.’

He studied her through the screen, his expression softening with understanding. ‘But you are enjoying it,’ he observed. ‘This village, these people. I can see it in your face, Mol. You look … lighter somehow. More you.’

Molly didn’t know how to respond to that – to the truth of it, to the implications for her carefully constructed life back home. She’d come to Ireland with a singular mission, expecting to complete it efficiently and return to her normal routine. Instead, she found herself caught up in village life, in helping a small family business, in feelings for a man who still didn’t know her true purpose for being here.

‘I should … go,’ she said instead, glancing at the clock. ‘I’m meeting Eva at the pub soon.’

Cole nodded, understanding her deflection but not pushing further. ‘Enjoy. But, Molls?’ His expression grew more serious. ‘Remember why you went there, OK. Nan’s wish is important.’

‘I know,’ Molly said softly. ‘I haven’t forgotten. I’ll find a way to the oak tree, I promise.’

His smile returned. ‘Call me after you’ve completed the mission. And once you’ve properly won over your brooding orchard owner.’

‘Goodbye, Cole!’ Molly sang firmly, though she couldn’t help returning his smile.

‘Send me pictures of baker girl, ’k?’ he blurted out just before she ended the call.

The screen went dark, leaving Molly alone with her thoughts in the quiet room. Outside, darkness had fully settled over Golden Valley, the square now illuminated by streetlamps and the glow from shop windows. The opening notes of a song floated up through the air, as if sirening villagers and visitors alike.

Molly stood and moved to the wooden wardrobe, selecting a floral wrap dress and a pair of black knee-high leather boots. As she changed, her thoughts circled back to Cole’s observations – about roots, about the change he’d noticed in her, about the need to remember her true purpose here. The oak tree remained her goal, the reason she’d traveled here in the first place. Her grandmother’s final wish still waited to be fulfilled.

Yet in pursuing that mission, Molly had somehow found herself threaded into the fabric of Golden Valley in ways she hadn’t anticipated. The business advice for Goldenridge. Fondness for Patrick, friendship with Eva and fun with the locals.

And above all, the complex, growing connection with Jack Flynn that trembled on the edge of something far deeper than landowner permission.

Molly applied a touch of mascara and a hint of red lipstick, studying her reflection in the antique mirror above the dresser. The woman who looked back at her seemed both familiar and strange – still Molly Harris, Manhattan marketing exec, but somehow softened around the edges, changed subtly by the Tipperary air and the connections she’d formed here.

The small midnight-blue pouch remained tucked into the wardrobe, a constant reminder of her purpose. Molly reached in and touched it gently, feeling the velvet softness beneath her fingertips.

‘Soon, Nan,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll get there. I promise.’

Chapter 28

The Orchard Pub embraced Molly with a wave of warmth as she stepped through its doorway, leaving the cooler evening air behind. Light spilled from copper lanterns, illuminating low-beamed ceilings stained amber from decades of hearth smoke. The by-now familiar scent of fermenting apples mingled with the earthy perfume of peat burning in the massive stone hearth created an atmosphere that felt new, yet oddly like coming home.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, scanning the crowded room until she spotted Eva’s bright-yellow bandana bobbing enthusiastically amidst a crowd gathered near the far corner. Laughter rose and fell above the hum of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses and the creak of worn floorboards beneath shifting feet.

Molly navigated through the packed bar area, brushing past worn wooden chairs and mismatched tables. Behind the bar, rows of bottles reflected jewel-toned light – amber whiskeys, ruby-red liqueurs and, of course, the golden array of ciders that served as the region’s liquid ambassadors. In pride of place above the cash register was a framed blue and gold Tipperary hurling jersey, and alongside it an autographed headshot of a broad-chested, deeply handsome jersey-clad player – county team captain perhaps, Molly mused.

The crowd parted slightly as she approached, friendly nods and smiles greeting her arrival. Eva stood at the center of a group of visitors and locals, flour still dusting one eyebrow despite her evening attire of leopard print dress and cowboy ankle boots, her hands moving expressively as always.

‘Ah!’ she called, waving Molly close and holding out a glass of cider. ‘You’re just in time for the barmbrack cutting. Come on, squeeze in here now.’

Molly edged into the crowd beside a silver-haired woman she recognized as the honey seller from the market, and an older man whose weathered face suggested decades spent beneath Tipperary skies.