Chapter 10
Mid-morning found Molly battling the disorientation of jet lag, her body convinced it was the middle of the night across the Atlantic, while her mind raced forward to the problem at hand.
The village square had grown busier, locals going about their daily routines with an unhurried pace.
Her feet carried her almost instinctively toward The Cherry Blossom Café, drawn by both the need for a caffeine hit, and the inviting display of pastries visible through the steamed windows.
The duck-egg blue door stood slightly ajar as if in casual invitation, and the weathered wooden sign swung gently in the breeze, its painted blossoms faded to a gentle watercolor wash by years of sun and rain.
She pushed the door open, another small brass bell announcing her arrival with a bright, cheerful tinkle.
Obviously a thing around here.
Inside, the café enveloped her in immediate comfort; low wooden beams, darkened by decades of wood smoke and conversation, crossed the ceiling.
Worn floorboards creaked pleasantly beneath her feet, their surface polished to a honeyed glow by countless footsteps.
The rich aromas of cinnamon, vanilla, and freshly baked bread wrapped around Molly like a familiar embrace, triggering a memory so powerful it momentarily took her breath away.
Growing up, this was how the kitchen in her childhood home had smelled on Saturday afternoons.
Behind the counter, a pretty woman who Molly guessed to be in her early thirties, about the same as herself, was arranging an assortment of pastries on tiered stands.
Her auburn hair was tucked beneath a colorful bandana, the rest escaping in curls around her face, which was flushed from the heat of nearby ovens.
Flour dusted her forearms and spotted her apron, which proclaimed Life is Short, Eat Cake in cheerful embroidery.
The café was half-full, the lull between breakfast and lunch. Several tables were occupied by locals; Molly could tell by their relaxed postures and the way the woman behind the counter called them by name as she delivered steaming mugs and plates.
A pair of older men played cards further down the back, their game punctuated by good-natured bickering, while a woman with a laptop sat in the opposite corner, typing between bites of something flaky and golden.
At a round table right in the center, three older women leaned close, their conversation dropping to whispers as Molly entered.
All eyes turned briefly toward the newcomer – not hostile, but curious, assessing.
A few nodded politely before returning to their conversations, though she still felt the weight of sidelong glances as she approached the counter.
The proprietor looked up, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Morning!’ Her smile was wide and genuine, crinkling the corners of her eyes. ‘Welcome. I’m Eva O’Sullivan, and this is my floury little kingdom.’ She gestured around the café. ‘What can I get ya?’
Molly glanced at the display case, where fruit scones the size of her fist sat next to delicate pastries and sturdier slices of cake. ‘Tea would be great, thanks. And one of those scones, if they’re as good as they look.’
‘Better,’ Eva said with a wink, reaching for a plate. ‘Plain, fruit, or cheese even?’
‘Fruit, please.’
‘Wise woman. Just pulled ’em from the oven five minutes ago.’ Eva bustled about, preparing a tray with efficiency that reminded Molly of her own morning routine – a series of movements so practiced they required no conscious thought. ‘Take a seat wherever you like and I’ll bring everything over.’
Molly chose a small table by the window, where sunlight streamed through lace curtains to create patterns on the wooden surface.
She positioned herself with her back to the wall – an unconscious habit from years of business lunches where situational awareness was as important as the conversation.
From this vantage point, she could see the square outside while still observing the café’s interior.
The jet lag hit her in waves, a peculiar floating sensation followed by sudden, intense clarity.
She’d experienced it before on international business trips, but this time it came without the buffer of immediate work demands.
She pressed her fingertips against her temples, trying to ground herself in the moment.
Within minutes, Eva appeared beside her table, setting down a tray with practiced grace.
‘Here you go – breakfast tea, steeped exactly three and a half minutes. Any longer and it gets bitter, any shorter and sure you might as well be drinking dishwater.’ She placed a large mug in front of Molly, followed by a small jug of milk and a bowl of sugar.
‘And your scone.’ The treat sat on a blue willow plate, golden-brown and studded with plump raisins and currants.
Beside it, two small ramekins held cream so thick it formed ridges, and glossy jam the color of wine.
A sprig of herbs and small purple flowers in a tiny vase completed the presentation.
‘You’ve got meadowsweet and marjoram around here?’ Molly murmured in surprise, touching the delicate white flowers beside deeper purple blooms.
Eva arched a brow. ‘Not many visitors recognize local wildflowers,’ she said, studying Molly with renewed interest.
‘My Irish grandmother was a gardener,’ she explained, which was true enough. ‘She grew all sorts of herbs.’
‘Mine too,’ Eva said fondly. ‘Taught me everything I know about which plants heal and which flavor.’ She nodded toward the herbs. ‘Meadowsweet’s good for headaches, which you look like you might have brewing yourself.’
‘Jet lag,’ Molly admitted. ‘Everything feels slightly off-kilter.’
‘The tea will help. And sugar – no better cure for travel fatigue.’ Eva pushed the plate closer. ‘Go on then, before it cools too much.’
The scone broke apart with gentle pressure, revealing a still-warm interior. Molly spread a generous dollop of clotted cream followed by a spoonful of jam. The first bite melted on her tongue – buttery, sweet, with a hint of cinnamon and the bright burst of berries.
‘Oh,’ she moaned, eyes closing briefly. ‘That’s incredible.’
Eva beamed with genuine pleasure. ‘Family recipe. My grandmother started this place with nothing but a cast-iron stove and these scones. Said good food creates loyalty faster than anything else.’
‘She wasn’t wrong.’ Molly took another bite, savoring the contrasting textures. ‘These are like crack.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment so.’ Eva glanced around the café, gauging whether her other customers needed attention.
Apparently satisfied, she remained by the table.
‘So, what brings you to our little corner of nowhere if you don’t mind my asking?
Most Americans who make it this far are either looking for their ancestors, or filming travel vlogs. ’
The question was direct but not intrusive, asked with the casual interest of someone used to engaging with strangers. Still, Molly felt herself tense slightly, once again remembering the apple farmer’s suspicious turnabout yesterday.
‘A bit of both, maybe,’ she answered carefully. ‘My grandmother was from this area. She always talked about how beautiful it was.’
‘Ah, ancestors so. We get a lotta those all right.’ Eva nodded knowingly. ‘Looking up old family records, visiting the church where great-great-someone was baptized and all that jazz?’
‘Kind of.’ Molly sipped her tea; perfectly brewed, as promised. ‘Though more just … getting a feel for the place she loved so much.’
Eva’s expression softened. ‘That’s lovely, actually. Most just want the certificate or the gravestone photo to put online.’ She leaned forward slightly. ‘What was her family name, your grandmother’s? Might have a few relatives still knocking around.’
This time, the directness of the question caught Molly off guard. She hesitated, cup halfway to her lips. ‘Brennan,’ she said finally. ‘Though I don’t expect anyone to remember her. She left half a century ago.’
‘Brennan,’ Eva mused, tapping a flour-dusted finger against her chin.
‘There’s a few around. Pat Brennan runs the hardware shop in the next town over– cranky as they come but decent with his prices.
And the Brennan sisters out past the old mill, though they’re from the Protestant side, if that matters. ’
‘It doesn’t,’ Molly assured her. ‘And I’m not looking to connect with distant relatives really. Just wanted to see the place for myself.’
Eva seemed to accept this, though her eyes remained curious. ‘Well, you picked an ideal time to visit. The leaves are just starting to turn, and we’ve had a dry August, which means the walking trails aren’t mud pits yet. Have you been out to the lake path? Views are stunning.’
‘I walked part of it this morning,’ Molly said, relaxing slightly as the conversation shifted to safer territory. ‘It’s beautiful. So peaceful compared to back home, Manhattan especially.’
‘You’re from New York?’ Eva’s eyes widened with interest. ‘With the skyscrapers and yellow taxis and all that Sex and the City glam?’
She nodded, smiling at her enthusiasm. ‘Yep. Though I promise it’s less glamorous when you’re just trying to get to work in the rain and traffic.’
‘Still,’ Eva sighed, ‘must be exciting. The most excitement we get here is when someone orders apple tart with cream instead of custard.’
They both laughed, and Molly felt some of her guardedness slip away. There was something genuinely likable about Eva – an openness that invited confidence without demanding it.
As they talked, the proprietor’s hands remained in constant motion – adjusting the flower vase, brushing invisible crumbs from the table, tucking escaped curls back beneath her scarf.
Her stories were punctuated with expressive gestures, her entire body involved in the telling.
She described village life with affectionate humor, pointing out the café’s regulars with subtle nods and whispered asides.