Page 25 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘But he kept it going?’ Molly observed thoughtfully.

‘More than that – he’s preserved ways that other orchards abandoned decades ago. Still presses cider the traditional way, still grafts his own trees.’ Pride colored Eva’s voice, as if Jack’s achievements somehow reflected on the entire community. ‘Won awards three years running at the apple fair in Clonmel.’

A timer dinged from behind the counter, and Eva glanced over her shoulder. ‘Hold that thought,’ she said, hurrying to retrieve what turned out to be a tray of miniature apple tarts, their crusts golden and glistening with sugar. The rich scent of cinnamon and caramelized fruit wafted through the café, prompting appreciative murmurs from nearby tables.

When she returned, she carried a small plate with one of the tarts. ‘On the house,’ she said, placing it before Molly. ‘Just out of the oven – be careful though, it’s hot.’

The tart was a work of art in miniature – a perfect circle of buttery pastry cradling slices of apple arranged in a pinwheel pattern, their edges caramelized to a deep amber. A dusting of cinnamon and what might have been nutmeg completed the simple yet elegant presentation.

‘That’s very kind, but I couldn’t possibly …’ Molly began.

‘Consider it cultural education,’ Eva insisted with a wink. ‘You can’t come to apple country without trying an authentic Tipperary apple tart.’

Molly relented, taking a cautious bite of the still-steaming pastry. The flavors were a revelation – apple mellowed by caramelization, buttery pastry with a hint of salt that perfectly balanced the sweetness, and an elusive spice note that lingered pleasantly after each bite.

‘This is … incredible,’ she said honestly. ‘The apples taste so different from the ones back home.’

‘Jack would tell you it’s the limestone soil and the particular angle of the hillside where his orchard sits. Plus those trees have history – some varieties he grows you can’t find anywhere else.’ As Eva spoke, her expression became more serious. ‘That’s part of why he’s so protective of the place. Been getting pressure from developers the last few years from England and America wanting to build holiday homes with “authentic orchard views”. As if you can have an authentic orchard once you’ve cut down half the trees for scenic overlooks.’

‘Sounds … challenging,’ Molly said, suddenly better understanding the suspicion in Jack’s eyes. Perhaps when she’d started asking questions he’d assumed she was yet another corporate scout?

Eva nodded vigorously. ‘Goldenridge is prime land – sits on a rise overlooking the lake, old trees, historic stone cottages and what-have-you. But it’s more than that to the village. That orchard employs half a dozen locals during harvest, supplies fruit for three counties, and the cider press is part of our heritage.’ She leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, I think the constant pressure is part of what’s made Jack so …’ She waved a hand, searching for the right word.

‘Prickly?’ Molly suggested with a small smile.

‘Very diplomatic!’ Eva laughed. ‘I was going to say “like a hedgehog with a rotten tooth”. But he’s a good one underneath it all. Just …’ she hesitated, ‘lonely, maybe. The orchard’s demanding – doesn’t leave much room for a social life.’

A thoughtful silence fell between them, interrupted when a hiker at the counter called over, asking about walking maps. Eva excused herself with an apologetic smile, leaving Molly to finish her tart and contemplate this new information.

When Eva returned, Molly carefully steered the conversation in a new direction. ‘Speaking of trees, I heard there might be some interesting ancient oaks up by the lake. The woman in the bookshop mentioned something about a famous one?’

Eva’s face brightened immediately. ‘The Wishing Oak. Beautiful, hundreds of years old. It’s actually on Goldenridge property, at the far end of the orchard.’ She brushed crumbs from the table into her palm with practiced movements. ‘Legend says it was already ancient when the first Flynn started growing apples there. Some folktale about fairies and lovers and magic – you know how those old stories go.’

On Goldenridge property.

Molly’s heart sank, but she kept her expression merely interested. ‘Sounds wonderful. Can you give me directions maybe?’

‘Well …’ Eva drew out the word, her expression turning apologetic. ‘It’s in the back acreage, away from the main orchards. The Flynns don’t like people wandering around there, especially during harvest season.’ She brightened. ‘You can see it from a distance on the lake trail, but like I said, festival’s coming up and they always open the gates for that – it’s tradition.’

Eva briefly gave directions to a good vantage point on the trail, but was soon caught up in the lunchtime rush. So Molly thanked her, leaving enough euros on the table to cover the food plus a generous tip – even though she figured they didn’t really do that in Ireland – promising to return again tomorrow.

The brass bell tinkled cheerfully as she stepped back into the sunshine, her mind whirring with this new information. The square was fully alive now– shoppers carrying bags, children chasing each other around the fountain, tourists consulting maps and taking photos of the quaint storefronts. Molly moved through it all in a slight daze, her weariness returning in a gentle wave as the stimulation of Eva’s company faded.

To say nothing of the implications of what she’d just learned.

The oak tree – the object of her mission – stood on private land. Goldenridge land.

Of course it had to belong to the apple guy. Jack Flynn. Upon whom Molly’d already made a poor first impression.

A breeze rippled across the lake, carrying the faint scent of fruit from the distant orchard.

‘I’ll find a way, Nan,’ she murmured. ‘Always do.’

Jack Flynn might be the obstacle between her and her grandmother’s final wish, but Molly Harris had never backed away from a challenge.

One way or another, she would get to that oak.

Chapter 12