Page 17 of The Apple Cider Orchard

She’d exchanged yesterday’s sodden travel attire for jeans and a forest-green cashmere sweater; casual clothes she rarely wore in Manhattan, but which felt somehow right for this cozy space. Aoife’s velvet-wrapped parcel was tucked away safely in the closet in her hotel room, but its presence lingered in her thoughts like gentle pressure.

‘Morning,’ came a greeting. ‘And how did we sleep?’

Molly looked up to find an elegant older woman approaching her table. Silver-streaked hair framed a knowing face lined with what looked like equal parts humor and determination. She wore a tailored skirt in deep plum and a matching cardigan, with a vintage brooch pinned at her throat that glinted beneath the overhead lights.

‘Better than I have in months actually,’ Molly admitted, setting down her tea. ‘I don’t think I moved once after my head hit the pillow.’

‘That’s the Tipperary air for you,’ the woman said with a knowing smile. ‘I’m Brid. My daughter told me you were half-drowned yesterday when she checked you in. Welcome to the Glen Arms – run by my family for as long as I can remember.’

Molly extended a hand. ‘I must thank Anna for the room upgrade. It wasn’t necessary, but very appreciated.’

Brid waved her away, her bracelets jangling musically alongside her accent. ‘Sure, we’re not full and the corner rooms have the best views of the lake.’ She tilted her head slightly, studying Molly with shrewd eyes. ‘Now, what’ll I get you for breakfast? The full Irish might be a bit much if you’re still on American time, but our porridge is famous throughout the four provinces.’

‘Porridge sounds perfect, actually.’ Molly smiled. ‘And maybe some brown bread, if you have it?’

‘If we have it,’ Brid echoed, her expression suggesting gentle mockery. ‘Like asking if we’ve air to breathe.’ She lifted the teapot from Molly’s table. ‘I’ll bring you a fresh pot as well. This one’s gone cold while you were daydreaming.’

As Brid moved away toward the kitchen Molly found herself smiling. Her accent and brisk efficiency immediately reminded her of Aoife, who had navigated life with the same no-nonsense approach, softened by unexpected kindness. And much like Brid, had also been quite youthful and light on her feet, despite her age.

The Glen Arms breakfast room had only three other occupied tables – an older couple poring over a map, a solo businessman typing furiously on a laptop, and a family with two teenagers who seemed to be communicating exclusively through grunts and eye rolls. Morning light filled the space, highlighting the rich sheen of the oak tables and the intricate pattern of the vintage tile floor.

Brid returned momentarily with a tray balanced expertly on one arm. She set down a bowl of steaming porridge topped with berries and honey, and a plate of thickly cut brown bread beside a butter dish and a fresh pot of tea.

‘Here you go,’ she said, pouring the tea with practiced precision. ‘Proper fuel for an autumn day.’

The oatmeal was creamy with an almost velvety texture, sweetened just enough by the honey drizzled across the top. The berries burst with tartness that balanced it all perfectly. Molly spread butter on a slice of bread, watching it melt into the dense, seed-flecked loaf. The first bite transported her instantly back to their Brooklyn kitchen growing up; that same nutty flavor, same chewy crust.

‘This is incredible,’ she murmured, taking another bite. ‘It tastes just like …’ She trailed off, suddenly wary of revealing anything too personal after yesterday’s baffling interaction with the orchard guy.

Brid paused in the act of refilling Molly’s water glass. ‘Just like what, pet?’

‘Just like what I imagined Irish bread would taste like,’ Molly amended, focusing on buttering another slice. ‘Everything here is so … authentic.’

‘Mm.’ The older woman’s noncommittal response suggested she wasn’t impressed by such overt flattery. She moved to Molly’s side, straightening condiments with determined precision. ‘Have you been to Golden Valley before?’ she asked, her shrewd eyes betraying little, but it was obvious she was fishing.

Molly tensed a little as she carefully crafted her response, keeping it friendly but vague. ‘First time in Ireland, actually,’ she said.

‘Is that so?’ Brid leaned slightly on the back of the chair opposite. ‘Funny thing, but I was only thinking earlier that you looked a bit familiar. The eyes, maybe.’

The butter knife stilled in Molly’s hand. ‘I have one of those faces,’ she offered with a lightness. ‘People are always thinking they’ve met me before.’

‘Probably.’ Brid straightened, smoothing her skirt. ‘Well, if you’re exploring today, you should know the forecast is dry until this afternoon. Take advantage of any break in weather while it lasts – September here can be fickle as a cat’s affection.’

‘I will, thank you.’ Molly turned her attention back to her breakfast, keenly aware of Brid’s lingering gaze.

‘The walking path around the lake is lovely this time of year,’ the older woman continued, seemingly reluctant to end the conversation. ‘The ancient oaks along the western shore are just starting to turn too. Golden light on golden leaves –’tis something to behold.’

At this, Molly looked up sharply. ‘Are there many ancient oaks around here?’

‘Oh yes, lots – some hundreds of years old.’ Brid seemed about to say more, when another diner nearby signaling for something caught her attention. She straightened, professional smile returning. ‘Enjoy your breakfast, and be sure to let me know if you need anything else.’ As she moved away to attend to the other guest, Molly returned to her porridge, mind churning with this new information.

Lots of oak trees.

So how was she supposed to know which was the right one?

When the last crumb of bread was gone and the tea reduced to dregs, Molly gathered her lightweight jacket and headed out on her quest.

Outside, the air carried a crisp edge that hadn’t been present yesterday morning. Church bells rang out from somewhere, their tones clear and resonant in the stillness. She paused on the hotel’s stone steps out front, breathing deeply. No traffic sounds, no city hum – just birdsong, faint voices and the distant lapping of lake water against the shore.