Page 60 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Not her grandfather; Eddie barely left Brooklyn, let alone America and she knew for sure he’d never spent a second in Ireland. Perhaps whoever it was, was the reason for all the mystery?

The song from last night echoed in her mind – ‘Beneath the ancient oak’s protection, where lovers carve their names with care …’ The lyrics seemed to hang in the air around her, as if the tree itself had written it.

Then suddenly Molly saw it. She leaned closer, feeling her heart rate accelerate as she studied the carving. A little different from the casual etchings of passing lovers, and something done with care, the letters perfectly formed despite the decades of growth that had distorted them.

PF + AB

The initials were enclosed in a carefully carved heart, with a date beneath, that time had rendered almost illegible. Molly’s fingers trembled slightly as they traced the letters, a strange vertigo sweeping through her. AB. Could it be Aoife Brennan? Had her grandmother stood in this exact spot, watching as her beau carved their initials into the living wood? Had this been their special place, the refuge mentioned in so many of her stories?

‘Golden Valley is where I first knew what love meant, mo chroí,’ Aoife had told her on her deathbed. ‘Under a tree so old it seemed to breathe with its own life. Where the roots went deep into Irish soil and the branches reached for heaven itself.’

Molly had always assumed it was just another of her grandmother’s famously poetic reminiscings. But standing here now, feeling the solid presence of the oak, she understood the truth in those words. This tree did seem to breathe with its own life, its roots anchored deep in the soil of Golden Valley, its branches creating a sanctuary from the ordinary world.

A sudden urge to share the moment overwhelmed her. Molly pulled her phone from her pocket. She tapped her brother’s contact, the phone connecting with soft electronic burbles. Seconds later, his voice came through; groggily given the time difference, yet alert.

‘Mols, everything okay?’ he asked, sounding worried.

‘It’s perfect.’ She smiled through tears, turning slowly to take in the full majesty of the oak. ‘Sorry to wake you but I’m here, Cole. I’m standing under Nan’s tree. Right now.’

‘You got there, amazing! What’s it like?’

‘It’s …’ She searched for words adequate to the reality before her. ‘It’s even more beautiful than she described. Massive, ancient. You can feel the history in it.’ Her voice dropped to an awed whisper. ‘There are initials carved everywhere – generations of them. I think I even found … well, you can guess.’

‘No way,’ Cole breathed. ‘Nan’s initials. Are you serious?’

‘I think so,’ Molly confirmed, her fingers returning to trace the carving.

‘Holy shit!’ He laughed softly. ‘All those stories, but seeing actual evidence …’

‘I know.’ She couldn’t stop smiling, imagining her grandmother here as a young woman, perhaps standing exactly where she stood now. It made everything so much more poignant somehow.

And better explained her dying wish.

Molly walked around the tree again, phone pressed to her ear, describing details to Cole as she moved – the way morning light filtered through the leaves, how the ground beneath felt different, softer somehow, as if centuries of fallen leaves had created a special soil. She told him about the song last night, the lyrics written specifically about this very tree.

‘So,’ Cole said finally, his voice shifting to a more pragmatic tone, ‘are you doing it right now – what she asked?’

Molly looked up, studying the branches overhead, then surveying the surrounding area. ‘No, I wanted to see it first.’ Plus she wanted to tell Jack, take him into her confidence before carrying out such a deeply personal and ceremonious task on his land.

‘I can’t remember, did she give any specific instructions?’ Cole asked. ‘I mean, besides the tree?’

‘Not really,’ Molly sighed, moving to examine another angle. ‘Just that it was where she felt most at peace, where she was happiest.’ She gazed at the carved heart again. ‘I guess it has to be here, on this side, where the initials are.’ She walked the wide perimeter of the trunk again, studying the ground, the way light fell, the view outward from different positions. ‘I just can’t quite figure out the best vantage point,’ she mumbled, uncertain. ‘Far superior views of the lake on the north side, but the light is better where the initials are.’

‘What about—?’ Cole began, but Molly suddenly stiffened, a prickling awareness creeping up her spine. Had she imagined it? But no – a twig snapped in the distance, followed by the soft crush of footsteps on dewy grass.

‘Better go,’ she said softly. ‘Call you back later?’

Molly ended the call quickly, slipping the phone into her pocket as she turned in the direction of the orchard. The quiet of the morning seemed different now, charged with unseen presence. She straightened her shoulders, composing her features into a casual smile. She would say she couldn’t wait, that she’d been too excited after the festival to sleep properly. Molly felt the weight of eyes on her back, an assessing silence that stretched several seconds too long. When she finally turned, the smile froze on her lips.

Jack stood at the edge of the clearing, his face a mask of rigid control that did nothing to hide the storm brewing beneath. His jaw was clenched, shoulders tight with tension, eyes narrowed in a gaze that cut straight through her practiced composure.

‘Jack,’ she began, her voice unnaturally bright to her own ears. ‘I was a bit early so I—’

But his expression stopped the words in her throat.

‘I knew it,’ he said, his voice dangerously quiet. ‘I should have known better than to trust you.’

And Molly realized, with sinking clarity, that whatever Jack Flynn thought he knew was far worse than the truth she’d been hiding.