Page 66 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Her shoulders ached from hours hunched over the laptop, and her eyes burned with fatigue. But alongside the physical discomfort was the quiet satisfaction of having created something worthy of its subject. Whatever happened now – whether Jack ever saw the piece, whether it made any difference to Golden Valley or Goldenridge’s future – she’d captured the essence of this place as she’d experienced it.

Conor Gleeson’s voice sang the final lines as the oak tree filled the screen, sun setting behind its massive form, creating a silhouette that seemed both protective and eternal:

‘Where time moves slow as the river’s flow, the land remembers every story,

Of those who stay and those who go …’

The lyrics faded, leaving only instrumental notes that seemed to linger in the air. Perfect timing for the simple text that appeared on screen: ‘Goldenridge Orchard – Roots that run deep. Tradition worth preserving.’

She sat back, emotionally drained yet strangely peaceful. The piece wouldn’t save the business or anything – no small social media campaign could solve structural financial issues or modernize aging equipment. But it might open doors, might bring attention from the right quarters, appease the bank, or even gently guide Jack in ways he’d never acknowledge.

Without allowing herself to reconsider, Molly uploaded the file and prepared it for sharing across platforms. The professional part of her mind worked automatically – optimizing file size, selecting appropriate hashtags, scheduling posts for maximum visibility. But beneath these practical considerations ran a current of emotion she couldn’t fully contain.

This place had changed her. These people – Eva with her unashamed warmth and friendship, Patrick with his gentle wisdom, Maeve with her kindness, Anna with her undemanding welcome, even Brid with her gossip and nosiness.

But of course, most of all, Jack with his complicated mix of gruffness and surprising tenderness – they’d all become more than subjects for Molly’s campaign.

They’d become people who mattered, whose lives she wanted to see continue and undisturbed by corporate interests that might destroy everything unique about the place.

She added a simple caption to accompany the video: Some places hold magic in their very soil. Some traditions deserve to continue. Goldenridge Orchard – keeping heritage alive for over two hundred years. #TheOrchardbyTheLake

Her finger hovered over the ‘share’ button for just a moment – a final hesitation before committing. Then Molly pressed it firmly, sending her work out into the world.

Done. Whatever happened next was out of her hands. As the upload completed, exhaustion settled into her bones, a physical manifestation of emotional depletion.

Then, also forwarding the piece to Cole like she’d promised, Molly closed her laptop and moved to the window.

The song’s lyrics replayed in her mind as she watched the village below, its melody becoming the soundtrack to this moment of quiet accomplishment:

‘The secrets of our hearts lie waiting,

For those with courage to meet them there …’

Chapter 37

Exhaustion settled deep into Molly’s bones then, the kind that sleep alone couldn’t cure. She sat on the edge of the bed, her body heavy with fatigue while her mind continued to spin much like the loading circle on a buffering video.

The reel had posted, beginning its journey through the algorithms, finding its audience – or not. She’d done her professional best for Goldenridge, for Jack. But the other half of her purpose in coming to Golden Valley remained unfulfilled – the promise that had brought her here in the first place, her grandmother’s final wish still waiting in the velvet pouch she’d carried across an ocean.

Her phone buzzed with a notification. Cole’s response to the reel was a string of fire emojis and a simple message: Holy shit, sis. This isn’t a marketing video. This is a declaration. You in love with the orchard? Or the guy running it?

Molly set the phone down without responding. Her brother’s jokey perceptiveness, usually endearing, felt too raw right now. She’d poured everything into that campaign – not just her professional skills, but all the complicated emotions she’d developed for Golden Valley and its stubborn, principled orchard keeper.

The evidence was there for anyone to see, especially someone who knew her as well as Cole did.

The room felt suddenly confining, its cozy charm transformed into a space too full of unresolved intentions. Molly moved to the window, pushing it open to let in the cool evening air. Traditional music from a different band drifted up from the square, the jaunty tune at odds with the heaviness in her chest.

She should be down there, enjoying it with the locals who’d welcomed her so readily. Instead, she was hiding in her room, nursing wounds both professional and personal.

She needed to call Pop. The thought settled with certainty, though her stomach knotted at the prospect of admitting failure. Her grandfather had been so confident in her ability to fulfill his beloved wife’s final wish, had buoyed Molly before she left with assurances that Aoife would be ‘so proud, so proud of their girl.’

She picked up her phone again, her finger hovering over Eddie’s contact for several seconds before she finally pressed it. Three rings, then the familiar booming voice that had narrated so much of her childhood.

‘There’s my girl! I was wondering when you’d call. How’s Tipp treating you?’

The warmth in his voice nearly undid her. Molly swallowed hard, fighting for composure. ‘It’s beautiful here, Pop. Everything she said it would be.’

‘I never doubted that for a minute,’ he replied. There was a slight pause, then: ‘So did you do it? Did you find the spot?’