Page 45 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘No,’ she admitted, ‘but it can create opportunities. The right exposure could lead to distribution deals beyond the local market. Premium pricing for heritage varieties positioned correctly.’ She paced a small circle on the worn floorboards, energy building as further ideas crystallized. ‘To impress the bank and stave off the vultures once and for all, we need to position the cider not just as a beverage, but an experience – a direct connection to centuries of craft and care. The antithesis of mass production.’ She turned back to him, hands gesturing with emphatic precision. ‘Eva’s right, you know. You’re not just selling apples; you’re selling preservation of heritage, environmental stewardship, resistance against corporate homogenization.’

Jack watched her, cautious hope slowly replacing resignation. ‘You sound like you actually believe that,’ he said, a question hidden within the statement.

‘I do.’ And Molly realized with mild surprise that she meant it. She also knew that Aoife would want her to preserve such an important part of Golden Valley’s history.

So whatever secrets still lay between her and Jack and despite her original reasons for coming here, Molly’s desire to help Goldenridge succeed was genuine.

Chapter 22

Jack studied her face in the amber lantern light, searching for something. ‘Why?’ he asked finally. ‘Why do you care whether a small Irish apple orchard survives?’

The question hung between them, deceptively simple yet dangerously complex. Molly couldn’t tell him the full truth – not now when he’d basically just bared his soul.

But she could offer a different truth, one she rarely shared.

‘Because this is what marketing should be,’ she confessed, perching on the edge of an empty crate. ‘When I first started – before the corner offices and corporate clients – I believed I’d be helping businesses like yours. Places with soul and substance, products made with care rather than calculation.’ She gazed at the rows of barrels, each containing liquid crafted with patience and expertise. ‘Instead, I spend most of my time helping tech companies sell gadgets that’ll be outdated in eighteen months, or luxury brands convincing people they’re inadequate without the latest drop.’ A hollow laugh escaped her. ‘My last project before coming here was a campaign for artificial sweetener that costs more per ounce than saffron.’

The confession felt both foreign and freeing. In New York, admitting dissatisfaction with success was taboo – a sign of weakness or, worse, ingratitude. Here, surrounded by oak and apple-scented air, such honesty seemed not just possible but necessary.

‘You’re obviously good at what you do though,’ Jack observed, his tone softened by understanding.

‘I’m excellent at what I do,’ she corrected without arrogance. ‘That’s part of the problem. Every successful campaign means more clients with deeper pockets and less compelling products.’ She traced a finger along the grain of the wooden crate. ‘Sometimes I wonder what my younger self would think of the career I’ve built. Whether she’d recognize me at all.’

Or if Aoife would, she thought troubled, guilty for basically using work as a grief-shield since her beloved grandmother’s passing last year.

Jack nodded slowly, recognition dawning in his eyes. ‘Like looking in a mirror and seeing a stranger wearing your clothes.’

‘Exactly,’ Molly breathed, impressed by his perfect articulation of a feeling she’d struggled to name. ‘Everyone congratulates you on achievements that feel hollow, while the things that matter the most go unseen.’

The rain’s rhythm shifted again, settling into a steady pattern that seemed to emphasize the cocoon-like quality of their shelter. The barn creaked and sighed around them, like a living entity adjusting to their presence.

‘This,’ she continued, gesturing to encompass the orchard beyond the stone walls, ‘feels like coming back to something essential. Marketing in its purest form – highlighting true value, as opposed to manufacturing desire.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ Jack moved back to the barrel that served as their makeshift table, refilling their glasses with practiced precision. The cider caught the light as it flowed, translucent amber-like liquid sunlight captured and preserved. He handed her glass back, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange.

The shift between them felt significant, boundaries redrawn by shared vulnerability.

‘Is there …’ Jack paused, clearing his throat. ‘Is there someone waiting for you? Back in New York?’

The question caught her off guard, its personal nature a departure from their previous business-focused chat.

‘Waiting in what sense?’ Molly hedged, studying his face for clues.

‘I think you know what sense,’ he replied, a hint of challenge in his tone.

She felt heat rise in her cheeks, grateful for the dim lighting. ‘No,’ she answered honestly. ‘There’s no one special. My grandfather, my brother. Friends. Colleagues. But no one like …’ She trailed off, suddenly terrified by the direction of the conversation. ‘What about you? Eva tells me you’re something of a local heartbreaker.’

Jack’s bark of laughter echoed in the cavernous space. ‘Did she now?’

‘Something about a string of summer romances?’ Molly teased, enjoying his discomfort. ‘And who was it … Maura Delaney chasing you through secondary school.’

‘Eva needs to mind her own business,’ he grumbled, though without real heat. He took a long sip of cider, then set his glass down with deliberate care. ‘No.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Not many women understand what it means to be tied to a place like this. Most see limitation where I see roots.’

The simple honesty of his statement struck Molly deeply. She had always valued her freedom, her ability to go anywhere, do anything. Yet watching Jack – witnessing his connection to the land, his commitment to heritage, the depth of his belonging – had awakened something in her.

A recognition that roots needn’t be chains; they could be anchors, holding steady against life’s storms.

‘I … think I get it,’ she said softly.