Page 64 of The Apple Cider Orchard

As Molly explained, something flickered in Maeve’s expression – curiosity, perhaps, or recognition. ‘I thought Jack wasn’t interested in all that stuff. He was pretty clear about that in the café that day.’

‘He wasn’t. Isn’t,’ Molly corrected herself, the shift to present tense a painful acknowledgment of their morning confrontation. ‘But circumstances change. The business situation is … challenging. And he’s too stubborn to admit it.’

Understanding dawned in Maeve’s eyes. She nodded slowly, hands clasped in her lap. ‘Jack Flynn, stubborn? There’s a surprise. But I still don’t know where the song comes in.’

But when Molly told her what she had in mind, Maeve smiled. ‘Oh, the boys would only be thrilled. Conor especially – that song means the world to him,’ she continued, clearly proud of her son’s music. ‘He was studying sound engineering in Dublin – the first in our family to leave Golden Valley for university. Hated every minute of city life, though he loved the course itself.’ Her fingers tapped gently against the countertop, finding rhythm in the memory. ‘Called home every Sunday evening in tears for the first month. Not that he’d admit to it now, mind you.’

Molly smiled despite herself, thinking of Cole’s similar stubborn pride as a youngster whenever he lost a hockey game.

‘He’d visit the oak whenever he came home,’ Maeve continued. ‘Said it was the one constant in a changing world. That tree’s seen generations of locals grow up, watched young lovers become parents, then grandparents.’ A wistful quality entered her voice. ‘So he wrote “Beneath the Oak” during finals week, after he’d been too busy to come home for nearly three months. Said the melody came to him fully formed, like the tree itself was sending it across the country to remind him where he belonged.’

The idea resonated with something deep in Molly’s chest – that same sense of belonging, of connection to place, that had eluded her for so long. Had Golden Valley begun to fill that void? Was that why Jack’s rejection hurt with such unexpected intensity?

‘The lyrics about carving names,’ she ventured carefully. ‘It’s based on actual tradition then?’

‘Oh yes,’ Maeve confirmed, eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Some say when you carve your initials with your beloved on The Wishing Oak, the love lasts forever. Others claim it’s magical – that wishes made beneath its branches always come true, though sometimes in unexpected ways.’

The hairs on Molly’s arms stood up, a physical reaction to words that seemed to speak directly to her unspoken purpose. Her grandmother’s own stories echoed in the song itself – tales of wishes granted and promises kept, of a tree that remembered what people forgot.

Exactly why the song had captured her attention last night.

‘More than that,’ Maeve went on, ‘I’ve always considered it a keeper of stories – surprise, surprise.’ She laughed. ‘A Golden Valley archive in living wood. My own parents’ initials are there somewhere, though the bark has surely grown over them by now. Most of the couples in the village have marks on that tree, going back generations.’

‘It’s a beautiful tradition,’ Molly said, now keen to get to work. ‘And thank you for permission to use the song. I’ll make sure Hearthland gets proper credit.’

Maeve moved back toward the counter. ‘Maybe give me your email and I’ll get Conor to ping you the master, save you having to find it?’

‘That would be amazing,’ Molly agreed, grateful for the practical focus. They exchanged contact information, Maeve promising to have her son reach out asap.

As Molly prepared to leave, the older woman selected a small book from behind the counter and handed it to her. ‘A little gift,’ she said with a warm smile.

The volume was slim, bound in soft green cloth with a simple title embossed in gold: Coming Home to Yourself. Inside, the pages contained poems about belonging and finding peace, the margins decorated with delicate illustrations of native Irish wildflowers.

‘I couldn’t possibly—’ Molly began, but Maeve shook her head firmly.

‘Books always find their rightful owners at just the right time,’ she insisted, smiling.

Something about the simple kindness – offered without expectation or agenda – broke through the fragile composure Molly had maintained since her confrontation with Jack. She clutched the book to her chest, blinking rapidly against unexpected tears.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

Maeve patted her arm gently. ‘Whatever’s troubling you, pet, always remember that stones still remain after storms pass.’

The phrase nearly undid Molly completely. She nodded, unable to speak further, and made her way to the door.

Outside, the festival sounds created a cheerful backdrop that felt discordant against Molly’s internal landscape. Yet alongside the ache in her chest, a quiet determination had taken root.

Jack might never trust her again, might never know the truth about why she’d come to Golden Valley. But she could still keep her promise to help Goldenridge, could still create something that might make a difference to the orchard’s future.

And perhaps, find a way to let him know how much she truly cared.

Chapter 35

By the afternoon, Molly’s room at the Glen Arms had transformed into an impromptu studio, her laptop perched on a writing desk beneath the window. Onscreen, thumbnails of captured footage lined up in the editing software. Hundreds of moments from her time here – each frame holding pieces of the place she’d come to love in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

She’d left New York as Molly Harris, marketing executive, but somehow, in less than two weeks, Golden Valley had unearthed something else – a version of herself she barely recognized, yet felt more authentic than the polished professional persona she’d perfected over so many years.

Outside, traditional busker music drifted up from the square, a cheerful counterpoint to the quiet intensity with which she’d worked all day.