Page 76 of The Apple Cider Orchard

And the kiss.

Molly closed her eyes and let herself return to it.

He had smelled like the orchard itself – clean and grounded, apples and damp earth, the faintest hint of rain. Not cologne, not anything manufactured. Just Jack, as if the land itself had marked him. That scent had drawn her in before she’d even realized she was moving.

The first touch of his mouth had been tentative, almost questioning, giving her space to step away. Molly hadn’t. She’d stepped closer instead, her fingers catching in the fabric of his jacket, the solid warmth of him beneath her hands anchoring her in place. The taste of him had surprised her; sweet with a sharp edge, like cider not yet finished fermenting. When the kiss deepened, when his hand settled at her waist as though it belonged there, the thought had come to her, sudden and terrifying in its clarity.

She wanted it to last forever.

Not just the kiss. The promise of what came next. The quiet certainty of more.

What if she stayed? The thought rose unbidden.

Mornings by the lake instead of crowded subway platforms. Work that smelled of apples and rain rather than burnt coffee and gridlock. Days shaped by walks by the lake, café conversation and music drifting through open doors in the evenings. Jack, steady and rooted, looking at her as if she were something worth choosing.

And Patrick, her grandfather.

Yet New York waited. Her career. The responsibilities she’d spent years shouldering without question. The life she’d built through discipline and sacrifice.

The distant rumble of an engine drew Molly’s attention back to the road. A white coach appeared around the bend, sunlight glinting off its windows as it made its steady approach and her heart rate quickened.

The bus slowed as it approached the village square, hydraulics hissing as it came to a stop beside the stone shelter. The doors swished open, and a few travelers descended – a teenager, an elderly couple clutching a guidebook and finally, a tall figure with military-straight posture despite his years.

Eddie Harris stepped onto the square with the careful deliberation that characterized everything he did. His white hair was neatly trimmed, his blue eyes sharp beneath bushy eyebrows that had retained their original dark color. He wore a pressed button-down shirt beneath his old bomber jacket; and carried a weathered duffel bag that had seen him through decades of weekend fishing trips.

‘Pop!’ Molly called, emotion thickening her voice as she rushed toward him.

His face broke into a smile that erased years from his features. ‘There’s my girl,’ he said, setting down his bag to engulf her in a bear hug that smelled of Old Spice and coffee. His arms were still strong, a testament to his old firefighting days and now the carpentry work that kept him busy in retirement.

‘I can’t believe you’re actually here,’ she gasped, pulling back to study his face. ‘How was the flight?’

‘Better than I expected, far scarier than I hoped,’ Eddie replied with characteristic dry humor. He glanced around, taking in the surrounds with keen assessment. ‘So this is it, then. The place she never stopped talking about.’

The bus driver – the same one who had brought Molly to Golden Valley what felt like a lifetime ago – handed Eddie his suitcase from the luggage compartment. ‘Welcome to Tipperary, it’s not that long a way after all,’ he quipped, giving Molly a knowing smile before climbing back aboard.

The doors closed with a pneumatic sigh, and the bus continued its journey, leaving them standing in the quiet square.

Eddie turned slowly in place, absorbing his surroundings with deliberate care. His gaze lingered on the stone buildings, the narrow lanes leading away from the square, the distant hills that embraced the village like protective arms.

‘Exactly like she described,’ he said softly.

Molly slipped her arm through his, steadying him as much as herself. They walked slowly through the square, Eddie’s worn boots falling into rhythm beside Molly’s. She pointed out landmarks that had become familiar to her over the past two weeks – the stone fountain where local children still tossed coins for wishes, the church whose bells Aoife had described so accurately that he nodded in recognition before Molly even mentioned it.

‘That’s Wildflower Books,’ she said, gesturing toward the shop with its painted sign and bay window display. ‘Maeve, the owner, supplied the song for my video. Her son wrote it about the oak tree.’

Eddie nodded, his attention caught by each detail as if cataloging them against memories of Aoife’s stories. ‘And there,’ he said, pointing to The Orchard Pub before Molly could, ‘is where she worked summers. Said the barman back then had hands like hams and a laugh that shook dust from the rafters.’

‘You remember everything she told you,’ Molly said, surprised by his recall.

Eddie’s expression softened. ‘Fifty-seven years together, sweetheart. You learn to listen when something matters to someone you love.’ He paused, squinting toward the hills where apple trees were visible in neat rows. ‘That the orchard, then? Where that guy tends his trees?’

‘Goldenridge,’ Molly confirmed. ‘It’s beautiful, Pop.’

They continued their walk, Eddie’s pace unhurried as he absorbed the village that had shaped his wife’s early years. As they passed The Cherry Blossom Café, the door swung open, releasing the scent of fresh baking and coffee into the cool morning air.

‘Molly!’ Eva called, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped onto the cobblestones. Her curly auburn hair was secured in a messy bun this time, and her cheeks were flushed from the kitchen’s heat. ‘Is this himself, then?’

Molly made the introductions, watching as Eddie shook Eva’s hand with the courteous firmness that was his hallmark.