Page 75 of The Apple Cider Orchard

Then her mouth softened beneath his, answering his unspoken question with absolute certainty.

What began as careful exploration quickly deepened, mutual restraint giving way to something far more urgent. Her hands slid upward, fingers threading through his hair as she pulled him closer. Jack’s arm tightened around her waist, erasing the remaining space between them until he could feel the rapid beating of her heart against his own. She tasted of apples and cinnamon, of afternoon tea and something uniquely herself. The air around them seemed to crackle with energy as their kiss continued, neither wanting to be the first to pull away.

When they finally parted, both were breathing unevenly, their foreheads resting together as they steadied themselves.

‘I’ve wanted to do that since … forever,’ Jack admitted, his voice rough with emotion.

Molly laughed softly, the sound warming him more effectively than any lantern. ‘That makes two of us.’

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, still amazed that she was here in his arms, that they’d somehow found their way to this moment despite all the misunderstandings. Then he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

The buzz of a phone interrupted the moment, vibrating insistently from Molly’s pocket. She made a small sound of frustration that drew a laugh from Jack.

‘You should probably get it,’ he said, though he made no move to release her.

With obvious reluctance, Molly extracted her phone, glancing at the screen. ‘It’s … my grandfather in Brooklyn,’ she said, panic and uncertainty coloring her voice. She accepted the call, keeping one arm loosely around Jack’s waist. ‘Pop? Is everything OK?’

He could hear the tinny voice on the other end, words indistinct but the tone unmistakably determined.

‘What?’ Molly’s eyes widened. ‘Where are you?’ A pause, then, ‘JFK? As in the airport?’ Jack raised an eyebrow, watching as disbelief transformed her expression. Her voice rose slightly. ‘Here, to Ireland? Now?’

Another pause as the voice on the other end continued speaking, gruffer now.

‘Pop, you didn’t have to—’ Molly stopped mid-sentence, apparently interrupted. Her free hand found Jack’s, fingers interlacing as if seeking an anchor in the face of whatever was happening. ‘Yes, I get it. Of course.’ She glanced up at Jack as she listened a moment longer, her expression softening. ‘I know, Pop. She would have. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Text me your flight details, OK?’ A final pause. ‘Love you too. Safe travels.’

Molly ended the call and looked up at Jack, something between amusement and astonishment in her eyes.

‘He’s getting on a plane here, landing in the morning. Says he’s coming to – and I quote – “get the job done once and for all”. ’ She shook her head slightly, wonder replacing the initial shock. ‘He’s never even left America before. Hates flying. But he says some things are worth facing your fears for.’

Jack’s arms tightened around her. ‘I like him already.’

Her expression grew thoughtful. ‘He and Patrick – do you think they’ll …?’

‘Come to blows?’ Jack chuckled. ‘Two strong-willed fellas in love with the same woman, meeting for the first time? It’ll certainly be interesting, anyway.’ He tucked a loose strand of hair behind Molly’s ear, his touch lingering against her cheek. ‘But since they both adored your grandmother, I’m sure they’ll find common ground.’

Molly leaned into his touch, her eyes closing briefly.

The garden settled around the two of them, night sounds creating a gentle backdrop to their quiet conversation.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges – the meeting of two grandfathers, the final fulfillment of Molly’s quest.

But tonight, in this walled garden with its copper lamps and climbing roses, Jack held the future in his arms and found it far brighter than he’d ever dared to dream.

Chapter 43

Molly shielded her eyes against the morning sun, scanning the empty road that led into the square. The airport bus was due any minute, bringing her grandfather to Irish soil for the first time in his seventy-seven years. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, stomach fluttering with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

Eddie Harris, former Brooklyn firefighter, stubborn as granite and soft-hearted as fresh bread, was about to meet Patrick Flynn – the man who had carved his initials alongside his late wife’s in an oak tree decades before.

Golden Valley looked different this morning. The festival bunting still hung between lampposts, but the frenetic energy of yesterday had subsided. Locals moved at a more measured pace, nodding to each other as they went about their business.

A few curious glances came Molly’s way from passing villagers – word of her connection to Patrick had already spread, she suspected, traveling through Golden Valley’s intricate social networks with the efficiency that only small communities can manage.

The memory of what else had happened last night unfurled, vivid and immediate.

Jack.

The hotel garden, its old stone walls holding the day’s warmth long after dusk had settled. The way the lantern light had caught in his eyes when he’d revealed that he knew the truth – about Aoife, about why Molly was really there, about the burden she carried with her like a secret she’d been holding her breath around.