Page 71 of The Apple Cider Orchard

A sudden wave of realization washed through him. That woman his great-uncle once talked about, who he had loved and lost half a century ago. The one who’d disappeared without explanation – she had been pregnant when she left Golden Valley.

Pregnant with Patrick’s child. And that child had given birth to Molly, apparently.

He pressed himself deeper into the shadows as Molly suddenly rose and disappeared into the hotel building while Patrick remained seated, his worn face visible in profile, moisture tracking unchecked down his cheeks.

Jack had never seen his great-uncle cry – not at funerals, not during the worst drought years, not even when they’d nearly lost the orchard to frost damage. The sight sent a jolt of discomfort through him, as if he were witnessing something too private for any eyes.

He should leave. This moment wasn’t meant for him. Yet his feet remained planted, unable to tear himself away from what was unfolding before him.

When Molly returned minutes later, she carried something in her hands – a small dark pouch that she placed carefully on the table between them.

‘This is why I came,’ she said simply.

No, Jack couldn’t leave. Not yet.

Chapter 40

When Molly returned to the garden, Patrick hadn’t moved, though his expression betrayed the tumult of emotions he’d experienced in her absence.

The garden had grown darker, the lanterns creating an intimate circle of warmth against the night. She resumed her seat, carefully placing the velvet pouch on the table between them.

‘This is why I came.’

Patrick looked at the pouch, then back to her face, confusion evident in his expression.

‘To bring Nan home,’ Molly explained, her voice soft with reverence for the wish she carried. ‘She wanted her ashes scattered beneath the tree where you carved your initials, The Wishing Oak. Where she was happiest, she said.’

Patrick’s intake of breath was audible in the quiet garden. He stared at the small pouch, understanding transforming his features into a mask of profound emotion. ‘Aoife,’ he whispered, the name a prayer on his lips after decades of silence.

‘She made me promise,’ Molly continued, ‘in her final days. Said there was nowhere else she’d rather rest for eternity than beneath that oak, watching over the orchard, the lake and the place she loved so much.’

A tear escaped from the corner of Patrick’s eye, tracking slowly down his weathered cheek before disappearing into the collar of his sweater. He made no move to wipe it away, his dignity in grief somehow more moving than any attempt to conceal it.

‘That was why I was so interested in getting to it,’ she said, finally explaining the mystery that had caused such friction with Jack. ‘I didn’t know how to ask Jack for permission without telling the whole story, to say nothing of the fact that I didn’t know …’ She hesitated. ‘About you.’

Patrick reached out, his hand hovering above the velvet pouch without quite touching it. ‘I’ve spent a lifetime wondering about her. Wondering what became of the only woman I ever truly loved. To think she remembered too. That she wanted to come home to us after all these years.’

‘She never stopped loving here,’ Molly said, swallowing against the tightness in her throat. ‘Our house in Brooklyn was filled with Irish music, stories and legends. She taught me how to bake soda bread and apple tart. To recognize wildflowers from a country I’d never visited. When she spoke of Golden Valley, her whole face would transform.’ Molly smiled through threatening tears. ‘She’d say, “mo chroí, it’s where my heart first opened”. ’

Patrick’s breath caught at the endearment. ‘Mo chroí,’ he echoed. ‘She called you that?’

Molly nodded. ‘Cole too – my brother.’

‘A grandson as well,’ Patrick murmured, as if testing the reality of all this new knowledge. His fingers finally made contact with the velvet pouch, tracing the embroidered Celtic knotwork with reverent care. ‘And she remembered our oak.’ His voice broke slightly on the word ‘our’, the simple pronoun containing decades of loss and connection.

‘She described it so perfectly that I recognized it immediately that first day at the lake,’ Molly said. ‘The massive trunk, the way the branches spread like protective arms. She said it was ancient even then, that it had witnessed countless lovers’ promises.’ She paused, gathering courage for her next words. ‘She told me that’s where she first discovered what love was.’

Patrick closed his eyes briefly, the statement clearly piercing some deep place within him. When he opened them again, they shone with a mixture of grief and gratitude. ‘Did she …’ He hesitated, vulnerability naked on his face. ‘Did she ever regret leaving, do you know? Not telling me?’

The question hung in the cool evening air, laden with decades of wondering. Molly chose her words carefully, honoring both the man before her and her grandmother’s memory.

‘I think she regretted not saying goodbye,’ she said gently. ‘She told me once that running away was both the hardest and the easiest thing she’d ever done – hardest because she was leaving her heart behind, easiest because she couldn’t bear the disappointment.’

‘Disappointment?’ Patrick’s voice cracked on the word. ‘I would have married her that very day. Would have cherished both her and the child.’

‘I think she knew that,’ Molly assured him gently. ‘But she was young and scared. She feared bringing shame to both families in such a small community.’ She reached across the table, placing her hand on his. ‘She didn’t regret the life she built, the family she raised. But here remained her heart’s first home.’

Patrick nodded slowly, his gaze returning to the velvet pouch that contained the earthly remains of his first love. ‘And now you’ve brought her home,’ he said, his voice steadying with each word. ‘Back to where she belonged.’