Page 68 of The Apple Cider Orchard

She traced the pouch’s embroidered edge, following the pattern of Celtic knotwork that had so fascinated her as a child. Her grandmother had used it to store various keepsakes over the years – a lock of baby hair from Molly’s first haircut, a pressed flower from Cole’s high school graduation, the small smooth stone from Coney Island that Eddie had given her on their fiftieth anniversary.

Now it held something far more significant, the physical embodiment of a final journey home.

Chapter 38

A sharp knock at the door startled Molly from her thoughts, the sound echoing through the quiet hotel room like an unexpected reprieve.

She hastily tucked the pouch back into the closet and crossed to the door, expecting perhaps Anna wondering if she was coming down for dinner.

Instead, Brid Ryan stood in the corridor, her silver-streaked hair arranged in its usual elegant coiffure. The older woman wore a fuchsia cardigan over a floral dress, a thin gold chain glinting at her neck in the warm hallway light.

‘There you are,’ Brid said, her voice dropping to her usual near-whisper, even though no one else occupied the corridor. Her eyes gleamed with a conspiratorial light that immediately put Molly on alert. ‘Patrick Flynn’s downstairs in the garden. Says he’d like a word.’

Molly’s heart stuttered. ‘Patrick? Is he – is everything alright?’

‘Wouldn’t tell me what it’s about,’ Brid replied, her tone suggesting this personal affront would not soon be forgotten. She glanced over her shoulder as if checking for eavesdroppers, then leaned closer. ‘Though between ourselves, he’s not looked this serious since the frost of ’86 took half the orchard.’

The statement did nothing to calm Molly’s nerves. Had Jack told his great-uncle about their confrontation? About her so-called betrayal?

‘I’ll come down right away,’ she said, smoothing her hair self-consciously.

‘Good girl,’ Brid said, nodding approvingly. ‘He’s waiting in the walled garden. I’ve just lit the heat lamps. The ’oul fool’s not as young as he thinks he is to be out in this evening chill.’

Molly followed Brid downstairs and through the hotel’s narrow corridors, their footsteps muffled by the worn runner that stretched the length of the hallway.

‘Mind the step there, pet,’ she cautioned, misinterpreting Molly’s hesitation as she paused at the photograph of her grandmother that had previously caught her eye. ‘That third one from the bottom has a mind of its own.’

They continued through the reception area, now quiet, as most guests were out enjoying festival activities in the square. Wooden floorboards creaked beneath the antique carpet, announcing their passage through the old building.

Brid led Molly through a door behind the check-in counter, down a short passage lined with service carts, and through another door that opened unexpectedly onto the hotel’s walled garden. The transition from interior to exterior space was so abrupt that Molly blinked in momentary disorientation.

The outdoor space existed in a world apart from the festival’s jubilant chaos. Stone walls, softened by climbing roses and ivy, created a sanctuary of stillness. Copper heat lamps had been positioned strategically throughout the space, their gentle glow creating pools of warmth against the evening’s growing chill.

‘There you go,’ Brid said, gesturing toward a stooped figure seated on a weathered iron chair and table set alongside some rose bushes. ‘I’ll bring some tea out in a bit, unless you’d prefer something stronger?’

‘Tea would be great,’ Molly replied automatically, her attention already fixed on Patrick’s silhouette against the gathering dusk. He looked up, his lined face catching the copper light from the nearest lamp and his eyes studied her with quiet intensity.

‘Tea be grand, thanks, Brid,’ he replied, dismissing her. ‘Hello, Molly.’

He sat with the patient stillness of a man accustomed to nature’s rhythms. His walking stick rested against his chair, his weathered hands placed carefully on his knees. He wore a thick wool sweater the color of heather, and a tweed flat cap that had seen decades of Irish weather. The set of his shoulders suggested contemplation rather than the accusation Molly had feared.

‘Mr Flynn,’ she greeted softly as she approached. ‘Brid said you wanted to see me.’

He gestured to the seat opposite his. ‘Thank you for coming. And it’s Patrick, please.’

Molly settled onto the chair, its cast-iron scrolled back cold through her sweater. Between them, a small table held a copper lantern, its flame dancing behind glass panels.

‘Is everything alright?’ she asked, tension threading through her voice despite her efforts to sound casual.

Patrick’s mouth curved in a slight smile. ‘That depends entirely on your perspective, I suppose.’ He looked past her toward the stone wall where late roses still bloomed, their petals pale in the fading light. ‘I wanted to tell you a story, if you don’t mind listening to an old man’s ramblings.’

The request surprised her. ‘Of course,’ Molly said, curiosity displacing some of her anxiety.

He nodded once, as if confirming a decision already made. ‘I was eighteen when I first saw her,’ Patrick began without preamble, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. ‘She was standing in the square with a book clutched to her chest, looking at the fountain as if it might hold all the answers she sought.’

Molly nodded cautiously, wondering where this unexpected tale was going.

‘She had the darkest hair,’ he continued. ‘And eyes that changed color with her moods; green in laughter, gray in thought. The first time I heard her laugh, I knew I was in trouble.’ His expression softened with the memory, years falling away from his weathered face. ‘She was like no one I’d ever met. Read poetry and collected folk tales. Could name every wildflower in the valley and knew the old beliefs about each one.’