Page 77 of The Apple Cider Orchard

‘Patrick’s been at the Glen Arms since dawn, pacing like a man half his age.’

‘We’re headed there now,’ Molly said, her own stomach tightening with renewed anxiety.

Eva reached out, briefly squeezing Molly’s arm. ‘All will be well,’ she said with quiet certainty.

They continued toward the hotel, their pace slowing as it came into view. The Georgian facade gleamed pale gold in the morning light, ivy climbing its walls in intricate patterns. Jack’s truck was parked nearby – he’d offered to drive Patrick into the village, understanding the older man’s need for support during this momentous meeting.

‘Nice joint,’ Eddie commented, his voice betraying none of the nervousness Molly knew he must be feeling.

The Glen Arms lobby welcomed them with the scent of beeswax polish and fresh flowers. Anna nodded from behind the reception desk, her usual professional reserve softened by a genuine smile. She’d been among the first to congratulate Molly after the video went viral, her quiet pride in Golden Valley’s sudden online fame evident beneath her practical concerns about increased bookings.

‘They’re in the lounge,’ Anna said, gesturing toward a doorway to their right.

Molly thanked her, then turned to Eddie. ‘Ready?’

He took a deep breath, adjusting his collar with fingers that betrayed the slightest tremor. ‘As I’ll ever be.’

Patrick stood immediately as they entered, his posture straight. He wore a deep-green sweater over a collared shirt, his silver hair neatly combed, his walking stick leaning against the chair beside him. Jack rose too, positioning himself slightly behind his great-uncle, a solid presence offering silent support and Molly’s heart melted afresh at the sight of them both.

The room crackled with unspoken emotion as Eddie and Patrick faced each other for the first time – two men who had loved the same woman across different continents and decades. They studied each other with careful assessment.

Molly held her breath, aware of Jack watching with equal intensity. This moment could unfold in countless ways – awkward formality, territorial hostility, or worse painful silence. The seconds stretched, tension building until it seemed the room itself might crack under its weight.

Then Eddie stepped forward, hand extended, his blue eyes direct and clear. ‘She spoke very fondly of you, buddy,’ he said simply.

Patrick’s weathered face softened, relief flickering briefly across his features as he wholeheartedly accepted the handshake. His grip was firm, his gaze steady as he measured the man who had shared Aoife Brennan’s life in his stead.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he replied, his voice rough with emotion. ‘She deserved nothing but happiness.’

‘Yes,’ Eddie agreed. ‘And she found it with both of us in different ways, I guess.’

Something in the simple acknowledgment broke the remaining tension. Patrick gestured toward the chairs arranged near the fireplace. ‘Will you join me? I’ve asked for tea, but if you’d prefer something stronger …’

‘Tea’s fine,’ Eddie said, settling into one of the leather chairs with the careful movements of a man aware of aging joints. ‘Though I wouldn’t turn down a whiskey later, if you’re offering.’

Patrick’s mouth curved in a slight smile as he lowered himself into his own chair. ‘I enjoy a drop or two myself.’

Jack caught Molly’s eye, a silent question in his gaze. She nodded, and he moved toward a small table near the window, pulling out chairs for both of them – close enough to be present, far enough to give the older men some privacy.

The hotel staff appeared with a tea tray, setting it on the low table between Patrick and Eddie before discreetly withdrawing. Patrick poured with precision, his hands steady as he passed a cup to Eddie.

The conversation began tentatively – short observations, careful questions, each man offering small pieces of Aoife like gifts to the other. Patrick described her as a young woman, collecting wildflowers and reciting poetry beneath the oak tree. Eddie spoke of her fierce independence in Brooklyn, how she’d worked double shifts at the diner until she could afford night classes at the community college.

‘She never lost her accent though,’ Eddie said, his own American cadence a stark contrast to Patrick’s soft Irish lilt. ‘Not entirely. It would come back strong when she was tired or angry or telling those old stories to the grandkids.’

Patrick nodded, his eyes distant with memory. ‘She had that lilt in her voice, even as a girl. Could charm the angels with it.’

They fell into a natural rhythm, their initial awkwardness gradually giving way to shared laughter and occasional misty eyes as they recognized pieces of the woman they both loved in each other’s memories. The tea grew cool in their cups, forgotten as the two men leaned forward in their chairs, bridging decades of separation through their common love for Aoife.

‘She kept this,’ Eddie said then, reaching into his jacket pocket to extract a small, worn photograph. He handed it carefully to Patrick. ‘Never displayed it, but I’d find her looking at it sometimes.’

Patrick’s hands trembled slightly as he took the photo. It showed a much younger version of himself standing beside Aoife beneath the oak tree, both smiling widely at the camera, her dark hair blowing across her face in the breeze.

‘I remember that day,’ he gasped softly. ‘My cousin had just got a new camera, was practicing on anyone who’d stand still long enough.’ He traced the edge of the photo with one finger. ‘But I never knew she had this.’

From her vantage point nearby, Molly watched the two men with a sense of wonder, tears pricking at her eyes.

Jack’s hand found hers beneath the table, his fingers warm and reassuring as they interlaced with her own. She turned to find him watching her, his dark eyes soft with understanding.