Page 5 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘I’m proud of you for doing this, sweetheart. Nan would be too.’

The words settled around her like a warm blanket. ‘Thanks, Pop.’

After hanging up, she sat still for a moment, phone cradled in her palm. The low-level anxiety that had been her constant companion to the carefully contained grief of last year seemed to have retreated a little. In its place was a sense of purpose that had nothing to do with client presentations, marketing strategies or determination not to cry.

Molly opened her laptop and navigated to the airline website with practiced efficiency. The ticket prices were higher than she’d like; last-minute bookings always were – but for once, she didn’t hesitate over the cost.

When the confirmation email arrived, she forwarded it to her grandfather, then hesitated before sending a text to Cole:

Listened to you earlier (don’t gloat). Flying to Ireland next week.

His response came almost immediately: Wonders will never cease!

Molly smiled, typing back: Take care of Pop. Will keep you posted.

I always do. And you better do more than that. Daily check-ins or I’ll assume you’ve been kidnapped by fairy folk or something. Seriously though, you’ve got this. :)

Next, Molly moved to her bedroom closet. Unlike the rest of her minimalist apartment, her wardrobe was a testament to careful curation; rows of tailored blazers, pencil skirts, and silk blouses in a palette of neutrals with occasional jewel tones. Business armor, arranged by color and season.

She pushed these aside, reaching instead to the rear corner where rarely worn casual clothes hung with department store tags still attached. A soft cashmere sweater in forest green and another in red, jeans that hadn’t seen daylight in months, hiking boots she’d bought for a team-building thing that had been canceled when a client emergency arose.

‘Practical,’ she muttered, pulling items from hangers and laying them on the bed. ‘Layers, and rain gear. Obviously.’

‘The seasons are different back home,’ her grandmother used to say. ‘You feel them long before the calendar. Spring comes slowly; blossoms appearing one by one, pink and white against the gray. Summer is just a warmer extension of sunlight really, not hot like it gets here. And autumn is when the land earns its keep.’

As she worked, memories continued to surface like bubbles in still water. Aoife showing her how to fold a sweater properly, small hands guided by weathered ones.

‘Treat your things with respect,’ she’d said in her lilting Tipperary accent, ‘and they’ll serve you for a long time.’

Those same hands teaching Molly to knead dough, weave daisy chains in spring, or press wildflowers between the pages of heavy books. Hands that had written letters to dwindling family members in Ireland, still maintaining connections across the ocean over decades.

She paused, looking at her own hands – smooth and manicured. She hadn’t written a letter in years. Hadn’t baked bread since college. When had efficiency replaced these rituals?

Main packing complete, Molly returned to her closet and stood on tiptoe, reaching for the highest shelf, until her fingers found what they sought; a small parcel wrapped in midnight-blue velvet embroidered with a swirling Celtic symbol, secured with a silver ribbon frayed slightly at the edges.

She brought it down carefully, cradling it in both hands as she carried it to her bed. The velvet was soft against her palms, not heavy in the physical sense, but weighted with significance that made her movements deliberate, reverent.

Molly didn’t need to open it to know what it contained. Had known since the day her grandmother had asked her the favor with uncharacteristic solemnity.

‘When the time is right,’ Aoife had whispered, her voice weakened by age and illness, ‘you’ll know.’

It’s been a year, Mol.

And now it seemed – Cole’s scolding ringing in her ears, and the ache of exhaustion settled deep in her bones – that time had finally arrived.

Molly brought the parcel to her lips, pressing a soft kiss against the velvet before carefully rewrapping it, making sure the ribbon was secure. With deliberate movements, she placed it in her suitcase, nestled between layers of clothes like something precious and breakable.

Aoife would surely have approved of the timing too – autumn in the golden vale, when the light turned amber and the apples ripened. When the veil between worlds grew thin, her grandmother used to say with a wink and a smile that suggested she both believed and didn’t believe the old folklore.

As she prepared for bed, moving through her nightly routine with automatic precision, Molly felt a peculiar sense of lightness. The knot between her shoulder blades had loosened. The constant inner refrain to hold back tears had for once, quieted to a manageable whisper.

‘Sleep well, mo chroí,’ Nan seemed to whisper as Molly drifted off. ‘The journey begins.’

Chapter 3

The JFK check-in agent’s smile never wavered, but her eyes hardened as she placed Molly’s suitcase back on the scale for the third time.

‘Sorry, but you’re still three pounds over the weight limit. You’ll need to remove some items or pay the excess baggage fee.’