Chapter 11
The café had since grown busier, with Eva moving efficiently between tables, yet still finding time for a quick joke or personal question with each customer. It was the kind of place where everyone was treated as a regular, even on their first visit.
As the café owner returned to clear her cup, Molly decided to brave it with a casual mention of yesterday’s encounter.
‘I met someone from that orchard you mentioned, I think,’ she said, aiming for nonchalance. ‘When I arrived off the bus yesterday morning, I accidentally knocked over some guy’s cart of apples with my suitcase.’
Eva’s eyebrows shot up, then a knowing smile spread across her face. ‘Ah, you’ve had the pleasure of Jack Flynn’s acquaintance so. Tall, dark and grumpy?’
Jack Flynn.
Molly nodded. ‘That’s him, I think. He seemed … very protective of his apples.’
‘Ha! Protective is one way of putting it,’ Eva tittered and put a hand on her hip.
‘Flynns have been growing apples in these parts since before anyone can remember and Jack treats those trees like they’re his children.
’ She leaned her hip against Molly’s table, in no hurry despite the café’s increasing busyness.
‘Was he short with you? He can be with strangers, especially if his precious fruit is involved.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘A little,’ Molly admitted, carefully editing the encounter. ‘But I could hardly blame him, given the damage I’d caused. He was nice enough at first, but I got the impression he doesn’t warm to outsiders.’
Eva snorted, the sound unexpectedly unrefined against her otherwise gentle demeanor.
‘That’s putting it mildly. But look, don’t take it personally – Jack’s bark is worse than his bite.
’ She glanced around, then lowered her voice a little.
‘Been through the ringer, to be fair. Lost both of his parents young – when he was only twelve, I think. His great-uncle Patrick raised him – distant relative from another town over but the only Flynn left until Jack was old enough to take over at Goldenridge.’
Something in Eva’s tone suggested a deeper history, and Molly found herself genuinely curious. ‘You know him well then?’
‘Sure, everyone knows everyone here,’ she replied with a small shrug.
‘But yeah, we were in school together. Jack was two years ahead of me, mind – quiet, always had dirt under his fingernails from helping Patrick at the orchard after classes.’ A fond smile softened her features.
‘Smart though – could have gone to university, had the points for it and everything. But he never wanted anything but those feckin’ apple trees. ’
She shifted, adjusting her colorful bandana.
‘I remember once in school, our science class was supposed to track the growth of bean plants. Everyone else’s died within a week, but Jack’s not only lived – it produced actual beans.
A real-life Jack and the Beanstalk! Ah, he just has this way with growing stuff, always has. ’
Molly could almost picture him as a solemn-faced kid carefully tending a plant while other children lost interest. It humanized further the man she’d encountered in the rain.
‘His uncle must be proud of him, carrying on the family business,’ Molly prompted, hoping to learn more.
‘Great-uncle. Like I said, they’re barely blood relations really – Patrick is second cousin once-removed to Jack’s grandfather or something …
but he’s Jack’s biggest champion. Though of course they’re both way too Irish to show it.
’ Eva smiled fondly. ‘Patrick Flynn’s a living legend around here though – knows every secret of apple growing, could predict the harvest down to the bushel just by studying the spring blossoms. Handed over the reins to Jack about ten years ago, though he still runs a small farm shop there at weekends. ’
Eva reached out absently to straighten the tiny vase of herbs. ‘It was a big deal when Patrick stepped back – everyone wondered if Jack would modernize or maybe sell the place to one of the bigger commercial outfits. Lot of pressure for a young lad in his twenties.’
‘But he kept it going?’ Molly observed thoughtfully.
‘More than that – he’s preserved ways that other orchards abandoned decades ago.
Still presses cider the traditional way, still grafts his own trees.
’ Pride colored Eva’s voice, as if Jack’s achievements somehow reflected on the entire community.
‘Won awards three years running at the apple fair in Clonmel.’
A timer dinged from behind the counter, and Eva glanced over her shoulder.
‘Hold that thought,’ she said, hurrying to retrieve what turned out to be a tray of miniature apple tarts, their crusts golden and glistening with sugar.
The rich scent of cinnamon and caramelized fruit wafted through the café, prompting appreciative murmurs from nearby tables.
When she returned, she carried a small plate with one of the tarts. ‘On the house,’ she said, placing it before Molly. ‘Just out of the oven – be careful though, it’s hot.’
The tart was a work of art in miniature – a perfect circle of buttery pastry cradling slices of apple arranged in a pinwheel pattern, their edges caramelized to a deep amber. A dusting of cinnamon and what might have been nutmeg completed the simple yet elegant presentation.
‘That’s very kind, but I couldn’t possibly …’ Molly began.
‘Consider it cultural education,’ Eva insisted with a wink. ‘You can’t come to apple country without trying an authentic Tipperary apple tart.’
Molly relented, taking a cautious bite of the still-steaming pastry. The flavors were a revelation – apple mellowed by caramelization, buttery pastry with a hint of salt that perfectly balanced the sweetness, and an elusive spice note that lingered pleasantly after each bite.
‘This is … incredible,’ she said honestly. ‘The apples taste so different from the ones back home.’
‘Jack would tell you it’s the limestone soil and the particular angle of the hillside where his orchard sits.
Plus those trees have history – some varieties he grows you can’t find anywhere else.
’ As Eva spoke, her expression became more serious.
‘That’s part of why he’s so protective of the place.
Been getting pressure from developers the last few years from England and America wanting to build holiday homes with “authentic orchard views”.
As if you can have an authentic orchard once you’ve cut down half the trees for scenic overlooks. ’
‘Sounds … challenging,’ Molly said, suddenly better understanding the suspicion in Jack’s eyes. Perhaps when she’d started asking questions he’d assumed she was yet another corporate scout?
Eva nodded vigorously. ‘Goldenridge is prime land – sits on a rise overlooking the lake, old trees, historic stone cottages and what-have-you. But it’s more than that to the village.
That orchard employs half a dozen locals during harvest, supplies fruit for three counties, and the cider press is part of our heritage.
’ She leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially.
‘Between you and me, I think the constant pressure is part of what’s made Jack so …
’ She waved a hand, searching for the right word.
‘Prickly?’ Molly suggested with a small smile.
‘Very diplomatic!’ Eva laughed. ‘I was going to say “like a hedgehog with a rotten tooth”. But he’s a good one underneath it all. Just …’ she hesitated, ‘lonely, maybe. The orchard’s demanding – doesn’t leave much room for a social life.’
A thoughtful silence fell between them, interrupted when a hiker at the counter called over, asking about walking maps. Eva excused herself with an apologetic smile, leaving Molly to finish her tart and contemplate this new information.
When Eva returned, Molly carefully steered the conversation in a new direction. ‘Speaking of trees, I heard there might be some interesting ancient oaks up by the lake. The woman in the bookshop mentioned something about a famous one?’
Eva’s face brightened immediately. ‘The Wishing Oak. Beautiful, hundreds of years old. It’s actually on Goldenridge property, at the far end of the orchard.
’ She brushed crumbs from the table into her palm with practiced movements.
‘Legend says it was already ancient when the first Flynn started growing apples there. Some folktale about fairies and lovers and magic – you know how those old stories go.’
On Goldenridge property.
Molly’s heart sank, but she kept her expression merely interested. ‘Sounds wonderful. Can you give me directions maybe?’
‘Well …’ Eva drew out the word, her expression turning apologetic.
‘It’s in the back acreage, away from the main orchards.
The Flynns don’t like people wandering around there, especially during harvest season.
’ She brightened. ‘You can see it from a distance on the lake trail, but like I said, festival’s coming up and they always open the gates for that – it’s tradition. ’
Eva briefly gave directions to a good vantage point on the trail, but was soon caught up in the lunchtime rush.
So Molly thanked her, leaving enough euros on the table to cover the food plus a generous tip – even though she figured they didn’t really do that in Ireland – promising to return again tomorrow.
The brass bell tinkled cheerfully as she stepped back into the sunshine, her mind whirring with this new information.
The square was fully alive now– shoppers carrying bags, children chasing each other around the fountain, tourists consulting maps and taking photos of the quaint storefronts.
Molly moved through it all in a slight daze, her weariness returning in a gentle wave as the stimulation of Eva’s company faded.
To say nothing of the implications of what she’d just learned.
The oak tree – the object of her mission – stood on private land. Goldenridge land.
Of course it had to belong to the apple guy. Jack Flynn. Upon whom Molly’d already made a poor first impression.
A breeze rippled across the lake, carrying the faint scent of fruit from the distant orchard.
‘I’ll find a way, Nan,’ she murmured. ‘Always do.’
Jack Flynn might be the obstacle between her and her grandmother’s final wish, but Molly Harris had never backed away from a challenge.
One way or another, she would get to that oak.