Page 16 of The Apple Cider Orchard

She slipped off her ruined boots and set them before the hearth, hoping the suede might be some way salvageable once dried. Her socks followed, and she curled her bare toes toward the flames, a small sigh escaping as warmth began to seep back into her extremities. The laptop case with its precious contents sat safely beside her, never far from reach.

Only then, in the quiet comfort of the empty lounge, did Molly allow herself to fully process the morning’s strange encounter.

The apple guy had seemed so genuine at first, openly flirtatious as they’d gathered the scattered fruit. And then, as quickly as the connection had formed, it had vanished. One moment they’d been engaged in easy banter, the next he’d been looking at her with suspicion bordering on hostility.

What had triggered the change?

Molly had expressed a casual interest in his work, nothing more, but it seemed like that was off boundaries, or a cultural misstep maybe? Was that somehow offensive in rural Ireland? Too invasive for casual conversation?

She reached into her pocket and withdrew the apple he’d given her, turning it over in her fingers again. It was perfectly formed, its skin a blend of red and gold that caught the firelight like a small jewel.

Goldenridge Orchard. The name had sparked recognition instantly – how could it not? Nan had mentioned it countless times, describing the fruit that Molly had mentioned to the bus driver earlier as ‘tasting like sunshine.’

The memory sent a fresh pang through her chest. This was supposed to be so different. In Aoife’s stories, this place had been a haven of warmth and welcome, of community so tight-knit you apparently couldn’t walk ten steps without someone offering tea or conversation.

The Golden Valley of her grandmother’s youth sounded almost magical – a place where the light fell differently across the lake, where music spilled from pub doorways on summer evenings, where even strangers were treated as old friends.

Instead, Molly was met with rain that soaked to the skin, cobblestones that fought her every step, and a handsome orchardist whose initial warmth had suddenly frozen into hostility without explanation. Even this hotel, nice as it was, couldn’t offer her a room on arrival.

Molly closed her eyes, exhaustion washing over her in waves. This had been a mistake. Her boss had prescribed rest after all, not a wild goose chase through a rainy Irish village where she knew no one, and apparently couldn’t avoid offending locals within minutes of arrival.

She should just get the job done quickly – fulfill her promise to her grandmother, and then head onwards for sightseeing in Dublin for the remainder of her stay. At least in the capital, she’d have anonymity, modern conveniences and city people too busy with their own lives to judge her for asking innocent questions.

The soft clink of china roused Molly from her thoughts and she opened her eyes to find Anna setting a tray on the small table beside her chair.

‘Traditional Irish,’ she said, arranging the contents with practiced efficiency. ‘Tea, brown bread, and honey from hives kept just up the hill. The eggs and bacon are from McCarthy’s farm, not two miles from here.’

The food smelled wonderful, rich and hearty and nothing like the protein bars and tasteless airline crap that had sustained Molly for the past twenty-four hours. She murmured her thanks as Anna poured tea into a delicate china cup, the amber liquid steaming fragrantly.

‘Business or pleasure bringing you to our little corner of Tipp?’ The question was polite, but Molly caught the genuine curiosity beneath it.

‘Just a personal thing,’ she replied, having well and truly learned her lesson earlier.

Though if Anna was insulted or disappointed by the lack of specifics, she didn’t show it. ‘Well, be sure to let me know if there’s anything else I can do to make your stay more welcoming. I’ve checked again on your room and there really shouldn’t be too long of a wait.’

The sentiment was kind, but Molly couldn’t deny the irony. More welcoming? Some welcome this was; soaked to the skin, homeless till this afternoon and already on the wrong side of at least one local. She managed a smile nonetheless. ‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’

Left alone again with her breakfast, Molly forced herself to eat despite her exhaustion. The food was undeniably excellent – eggs with yolks the color of marigolds, delicious bacon that bore no resemblance to its American counterpart, bread that tasted of something deeper than the mass-produced versions she usually grabbed from the corner deli.

As she ate, she gazed out the rain-spattered window at what she could make out of the hotel grounds. A flagstone path wound through to a rear walled garden that must be glorious in better weather, leading to what appeared to be a small gate in a distant wall. On the other side, she caught glimpses of Lough Corrin itself, pewter in the morning light, its surface textured by raindrops.

Her grandmother had described swimming in that lake as a girl, claimed the water was sweet and cold and cleansing. Had spoken of picnics on its shore, of starlight reflected on still water in the darkness.

Again, Molly tried to reconcile those stories with the rain-blurred reality before her, but the gap felt insurmountable. Perhaps time had gilded her grandmother’s recollections? Transformed ordinary experiences into something magical through nostalgia and distance.

Or perhaps Golden Valley had simply changed in the decades since Aoife Brennan had left its shores, becoming just another rural village struggling to maintain its identity in a rapidly changing world.

Either way, Molly couldn’t escape the feeling that she’d made a bad decision.

In her current state – exhausted, uncomfortable and smarting from her encounter with the grumpy local – she truly wasn’t sensing whatever magic her grandmother had been talking about.

Chapter 8

The following morning, sunlight streamed through the windows of the hotel breakfast room, casting honeyed patterns across the tiled floor.

Molly sat at a corner table, cradling a steaming mug of tea between her palms. After a hot shower and almost eighteen hours of near-comatose sleep, she felt human again, a marked improvement over yesterday’s rain-soaked arrival.

Her hair, now freshly washed and smoothed into a neat ponytail, caught the morning light as she surveyed the room – dark beams and whitewashed walls, decorated with watercolor landscapes of the surrounding countryside. The air smelled of freshly baked bread and bacon.