Chapter 13
Molly followed the narrow trail that curved along the lake’s eastern shore, her feet crunching on the carpet of fallen leaves.
The crisp afternoon air carried the scent of water and earth, of things growing and things dying back for winter.
Perfect walking weather, though her purpose wasn’t merely recreational.
The lake stretched beside her like polished pewter, its surface rippled by an occasional breeze that sent wavelets lapping against the rocky shore.
Ducks paddled in the shallows, leaving V-shaped wakes behind them.
On the opposite shore, the village looked like a watercolor painting; stone buildings with smoke curling from chimneys, the church spire rising above them all.
Molly paused to take a photo with her phone, then thought better of it.
Some moments demanded to simply be experienced.
She continued walking, the path narrowing as it wound between the water and a rising slope dotted with rowan trees.
Their berries hung in bright-red clusters, drawing eye and hand alike.
Molly resisted the urge to pick some, then paused as she remembered some old Irish superstition about it being bad luck.
She smiled, feeling silly.
A gust of wind swept across the lake, stronger than before, sending a shower of golden leaves spiraling down around her. One landed on her shoulder, and Molly plucked it off, examining its perfect star shape before letting it flutter from her fingers.
The trail curved again, leading away from the shore and up a gentle incline.
She followed it, her breathing quickening slightly with the climb.
At the crest of the small hill, the path divided; one fork continuing along the lakeshore, the other cutting inland between mature sycamores whose peeling bark revealed patches of cream and olive beneath.
Eva’s directions from earlier echoed in her memory: ‘Take the inland path when you reach the sycamores. The oak is in a clearing further beyond, though you’ll see it well before you reach it.’
Molly took the path, ducking beneath low-hanging branches.
Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, dappling the ground with shifting patterns of light and shadow.
The sounds of the lake receded, replaced by the rustle of leaves overhead and the distant tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker.
The trees thinned ahead, allowing more light to penetrate.
And then, suddenly, she saw it.
A ginormous oak tree rose from the landscape like something from another age, impossibly massive against the backdrop of smaller trees surrounding it.
Its trunk was wider than Molly had imagined possible, gnarled and textured with centuries of growth.
Branches spread in all directions, some as thick as normal trees themselves, creating a canopy that must have spanned fifty feet or more.
Even now in autumn, it retained many of its leaves – deep green at the center, burnished gold at the outer edges.
It stood quite a way behind a low stone wall that marked the boundary of the neighboring property, but even from this distance, its presence was commanding.
She paused, her breath catching. This was no ordinary tree. This was a living monument, a bridge between past and present, exactly as her grandmother had described. She could almost hear Aoife’s voice: ‘The kind of thing that makes you believe in magic.’
A strange feeling washed over her – part déjà vu, part homecoming. Though she’d never stood in this spot before, had never seen this tree except through her grandmother’s words, something about it resonated in Molly’s blood. Recognition without memory.
She approached the boundary wall slowly, her footsteps hushed by the carpet of leaves and moss.
The stone barrier was low enough to step over; roughly waist-high and weathered by centuries of damp.
Lichen painted its surface in patches of silver-gray and pale green.
In places, the mortar had crumbled away, leaving gaps between stones where ferns had taken root.
She reached the wall and placed a hand on its rough, cool surface, leaning slightly to peer at the tree beyond. The velvet parcel back in her hotel room seemed to call to her across the distance, urging completion of the task she’d traveled so far to fulfill.
‘This is private land.’
The voice cut through the stillness, startling her.
Molly spun sideways, heart hammering, to find the apple guy from yesterday, Jack Flynn, standing several paces away on the other side of the wall. He’d approached silently, his footsteps masked by the rustle of leaves and her own absorption.
He stood with arms crossed over his chest, legs planted firmly apart in a stance that claimed his territory.
The afternoon sun caught in his dark hair, highlighting strands of chestnut among the deeper brown.
Combined with his rugged handsomeness, the effect would ordinarily have been arresting, only for his expression, which was guarded, suspicious.
‘I …’ Molly began, but couldn’t quite find the words. Caught red-handed at the boundary of his property, she had no ready explanation.
‘I said, this is private land.’ He gestured toward the wall. ‘Goldenridge property starts here. No trespassing.’
‘I wasn’t trespassing,’ Molly said, finding her voice. ‘I was just … looking.’
Jack’s eyes narrowed, skepticism evident in the downward turn of his mouth. ‘Looking pretty intently. At an area that’s not visible from a public path unless you go looking for it.’ He took a step closer, his gaze harder now. ‘Crest doesn’t quit easily, eh?’
Molly’s brow furrowed in confusion. ‘I don’t even know who that is.’ She glanced back at the oak, then to Jack again. ‘I heard about an ancient oak tree from Eva at the café. I like old trees.’ The explanation sounded weak even to her own ears.
‘Right,’ Jack said, the single word dripping with disbelief.
‘You rolled into town only yesterday, someone happened to mention a specific tree on private land, and you happened to find your way here, and you happened to be now admiring it with such … casual interest.’ He gestured toward her phone, which she’d unconsciously pulled out with the intention of photographing the tree to show to Cole.
Molly slipped the device back into her pocket, realizing that this confrontation was heading in the wrong direction again. This guy had already formed his opinion of her as a potential enemy to his land, so antagonizing him further wouldn’t help. She needed a different approach.
She softened her posture, letting her shoulders relax and allowing a small smile to curve her lips.
‘You caught me,’ she chuckled. ‘I’m a bit of a tree enthusiast. Back home, I volunteer with the parks department in my spare time.
’ The lie came easily, a small one – just until she got back enough on his good side to explain her true interest in the oak, and ask permission to access it.
‘When Eva mentioned a tree older than the village itself, well … I couldn’t resist coming to see it.
’ Molly stepped away from the wall, moving slightly closer to Jack instead.
‘I’m not from any company or corporation, I assure you.
Just someone with a weakness for impressive oaks.
’ She extended her hand. ‘Let’s start over.
Molly Harris, a tourist. Absolutely not affiliated with Crest, whoever that might be. ’
Jack looked at her outstretched hand as if it might bite, making no move to take it. His eyes, deep brown and flecked with amber in the afternoon light, held hers with unwavering intensity.
Again, Molly felt a flutter of something that had nothing to do with the confrontation – an awareness of him as more than an obstacle. The stubborn set of his jaw, the way his battered leather jacket stretched across broad shoulders, the strength evident in his weathered hands.
‘Right,’ he said finally, ignoring her attempted handshake.
‘Look, I don’t know what your game is, but I’ve seen your type before.
The friendly approach, the casual questions, the interest in my land.
’ His voice hardened. ‘Then comes the offer, always presented as some great opportunity that I’d be a fool to refuse. ’
She let her hand fall back to her side, the flutter of attraction quickly overshadowed by embarrassment.
‘I’m not interested in buying your orchard,’ Molly assured him.
‘I’m here on personal business that has nothing to do with you or your land.
’ Not entirely true, but close enough. She tried once more, letting her smile widen just enough to create the dimple in her left cheek that her colleagues called her ‘secret weapon’ in difficult client meetings.
‘In fact, I was hoping to try some of your famous cider while I’m in the village.
Eva tells me it’s worth crossing the Atlantic for.
’ The flirtation in her tone was subtle but unmistakable – a tactic she’d rarely needed to employ in her professional life, but in this case, was worth a shot.
Especially when he’d been perfectly fine with it yesterday.
Jack’s posture became, if possible, even more rigid. ‘The Orchard Pub serves our cider. Edge of the main square. Can’t miss it.’ Each word was clipped short, while his face was a mask of cold resistance. ‘Now, if you’re finished “admiring” my oak, I have work to do.’
His emphasis on ‘my oak’ carried a clear message: whatever Molly’s interest in the tree, he considered it off-limits. Boundaries were being drawn, not just in the physical space but in the interaction between them.
She’d miscalculated, Molly knew, a little ashamed now.
The charm that disarmed corporate boardrooms had only deepened his suspicion.
Worse, after their flirtatious encounter yesterday, she found herself genuinely disappointed by his response – or lack thereof.
There was something about this guy – his directness, perhaps, or the evident passion he had for his land – that sparked unexpected interest.
Interest that was clearly not reciprocated.
‘Fine,’ she said, stepping back from the wall. ‘So sorry to have bothered you.’ Molly turned to go, frustration and disappointment mingling uncomfortably in her chest.
A few steps down the path, she paused and looked back.
Jack Flynn stood where she’d left him, silhouetted against the afternoon sky, the ancient oak rising majestically behind him. For a moment, they looked like parts of the same picture – the man and the tree, equally rooted, equally stubborn.
Noticing her pause, he gestured toward the village again. ‘Pub’s that way,’ he reiterated. ‘Enjoy.’
The dismissal was unmistakable. She turned away, trying to ignore the sting of his rejection – both of her interest in the tree and her subtle overtures, and headed back along the path, autumn leaves crunching beneath her feet, the sound no longer pleasant but percussive with frustration.
The worst part wasn’t Jack Flynn’s suspicion or his brusque manner. It was the fact that despite all that, despite his entirely unreasonable hostility, Molly still found herself drawn to him.
The intensity in his eyes when he spoke of his land, the evident pride he took in his heritage, even the protectiveness that manifested as rudeness – all hinted at a depth of character that intrigued her far more than it should.
‘Ridiculous,’ she muttered to herself as the path curved back toward the lake. She was here for her grandmother, for a promise made at Aoife’s bedside.
Not to develop an inconvenient attraction to a grumpy apple farmer who clearly wanted nothing to do with her.