Chapter 19
Jack was at the orchard gate twenty minutes early on Monday, the morning dew still clinging to the grass as he paced the gravel path.
The sun had barely cleared the eastern hills, painting the apple trees in soft gold light that caught on fruit-laden branches and turned ordinary leaves into stained glass.
He’d slept poorly all weekend, his mind churning with conflicted thoughts about Molly Harris and this madcap marketing scheme the entire village seemed determined to thrust upon him.
The route was already mapped out in his head, but the prospect of showing a stranger – particularly this stranger, with her too-observant eyes – around his family’s legacy left his stomach tight with something that wasn’t quite dread but wasn’t comfort either.
He checked his watch again. Seven-fifty. She’d be here soon, if she kept her word. Part of him half-expected her not to show, to have second thoughts about the entire arrangement or make excuses since she’d been so expertly strong-armed into it all when she was supposed to be here on holiday.
Personal obligation, he’d remembered her saying that first morning in the rain and his curiosity pricked. Wasn’t this yet another obligation?
A flash of movement at the lane’s end caught his attention.
Molly appeared, walking briskly up the path from the front entrance gates, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail.
He straightened, watching her approach with reluctant curiosity.
Long gone was that city polish of their first meeting; today she wore jeans, sturdy hiking boots, and a red sweater that brought out the color of her eyes even more.
She carried a small leather notebook tucked under one arm.
‘Morning,’ she called as she drew closer. ‘Hope I’m not late.’
‘Right on time,’ Jack replied, his tone carefully neutral despite the unexpected leap in his pulse at the sight of her.
She looked … right, somehow, against the backdrop of the orchard’s autumn colors.
Less the corporate threat he’d first imagined and more like someone who might actually understand what this place was all about.
‘OK if I do a bit of filming?’ she asked gesturing unnecessarily with her phone. ‘For social media stuff. Nothing too intrusive, I promise.’
‘OK. Just don’t expect me to start yapping into the camera like an eejit,’ he warned, and was gratified to see her smile a little.
‘Not a problem. So, Mr Flynn,’ she said jauntily, ‘maybe start by telling me all there is to know about apples.’
He nodded, turning toward the orchard entrance to hide the flush creeping up his neck. ‘We’ll start with the heritage varieties, then work our way to the newer sections.’
He held the gate open, the metal hinges creaking softly as Molly passed through.
She moved carefully, eyes already scanning the neat rows of trees that stretched across the hillside in geometrically perfect lines.
Jack followed, hyperaware of her presence as they walked side by side down the central path.
‘Orchard’s divided into seven sections,’ he explained, falling into the familiar rhythm of describing his life’s work. ‘Each with different varieties suited to the particular soil and exposure of that area.’
‘How many types do you grow?’ she asked.
‘Twenty-three total. Fifteen heritage varieties that date back generations, five modern cultivars for commercial viability, and three experimental crosses that we’re still evaluating.’
She nodded, taking brief notes.
Jack gestured toward the nearest row of trees. ‘These are Cavan Russets. They’ve been in Irish orchards since the 1800s, maybe earlier. Not much to look at –’ he plucked one from a low-hanging branch and handed it to her – ‘but the flavor is complex. Honey notes with a sharp finish.’
Molly accepted the fruit, turning it in her hands. The russet apple was mottled brown-gold, with none of the polished perfection of supermarket varieties. She raised it to her nose, inhaling deeply, and Jack found himself watching her face, oddly invested in her reaction.
‘Smells amazing,’ she said softly, the genuine appreciation in her voice loosening something tight in Jack’s chest. ‘Like … honey and cloves.’
‘Good nose,’ he said, surprised. ‘Most people miss the spice notes.’
They continued down the row, Jack pointing out different trees, explaining the challenges and rewards of each variety.
To his surprise, (and still lingering suspicion) Molly asked intelligent questions – about pollination patterns, disease resistance, and the relationship between soil composition and flavor development.
Not surface-level questions but ones that suggested genuine interest in the science behind his work.
He truly hoped he wasn’t making a mistake here and giving away all his secrets. It was true what they said about fools and women.
‘The commercial orchards focus purely on appearance and shelf life,’ he explained as they paused beside a gnarled tree whose branches bowed under the weight of small, misshapen fruit.
‘Perfect red spheres that look good under supermarket lights but taste like nothing.’ He couldn’t keep the disdain from his voice.
‘These won’t win any beauty contests, but they’ve got character. ’
She snapped some photos, then crouched to capture footage of fallen fruit nestled in the grass beneath. ‘Character sells, you know. Especially these days. People are tired of perfection – they want authenticity.’
Jack watched her work, the morning light catching in her hair as she shifted angles. ‘That’s what Patrick said.’
She glanced up, a smile quirking one corner of her mouth. ‘Great minds.’
They moved deeper into the orchard, the morning sun warming the air and releasing the complex perfume of ripe apples.
Fallen leaves crunched beneath their boots, and somewhere in the distance a pheasant called, its harsh cry cutting through the stillness.
Jack found himself relaxing despite his lingering reservations, the familiar surroundings and the rhythm of explanation soothing his wariness.
At a junction between two sections, he paused before a tree that stood apart from the orderly rows.
‘This is one of our oldest,’ he said, resting his palm against the gnarled trunk.
‘Planted by my great-great-grandfather. The variety is nearly extinct now – Bloody Butcher, named for the deep red flesh. But modern consumers don’t want an apple that bleeds when you bite it. ’
‘May I?’ Molly asked, raising her phone to take some footage.
Jack nodded, stepping back to give her room. She circled the tree slowly, capturing it from different angles, her movements deliberate and respectful. Not like the Crest goons who’d strode through his orchard with measuring eyes, seeing only acreage and potential profit margins.
‘The tree needs careful handling,’ he continued, surprising himself with how much he wanted to share. ‘We’ve grafted from it several times to preserve the line, but there’s something about this original stock – the apples have a depth the younger trees don’t match.’
‘Like wine from older grape vines,’ she suggested, lowering her camera.
‘Exactly like that.’ Jack studied her face, finding unexpected pleasure in her understanding.
‘My grandfather likes wine,’ she explained. ‘Always talking about terroir and stuff. I guess the same principles apply across different fruits.’
Jack led her toward the grafting shed then, a small structure nestled between orchard sections where the delicate work of propagation took place.
Inside, benches lined the walls, tools hung in precise arrangements, and bundles of carefully labeled scions sat in dampened cloth, waiting for spring’s work.
‘This is where the real magic happens,’ he said, unable to keep pride from his voice as he explained the process of joining different apple varieties to rootstock.
‘Patrick says it’s a bit like matchmaking – you need to understand the characteristics of each partner, the strengths and weaknesses they’ll bring to the union. ’
Molly leaned against the workbench, occasionally filming but mostly listening as Jack demonstrated how a small section of one variety could be skillfully attached to another, creating a tree that combined the best attributes of both.
His hands moved with practiced grace as he described the technique, fingers tracing the paths where cambium layers must meet to create a successful graft.
‘It’s incredible,’ she said when he finished. ‘All that knowledge, passed down through generations. You can’t get that from a textbook.’
‘No,’ Jack agreed, surprisingly pleased by her appreciation. ‘Patrick taught me, just as his ancestors taught him. There’s a feel to it you develop over time.’
They stepped back outside, the cooler autumn air a relief after the close warmth of the shed.
Jack checked his watch – they’d spent longer there than he’d intended, drawn out by Molly’s interested questions and his own unexpected enthusiasm for sharing his craft.
As they walked the path between orchard sections, a flash of white caught Jack’s eye.
A hawthorn tree grew at the junction between two apple rows, its gnarled branches dotted with the last of the season’s berries, bright red against dark leaves.
‘Better not cut that one down,’ Molly commented, a light smile playing at her lips. ‘Fairies won’t be happy.’
Jack blinked, studying her. ‘That’s … not something tourists usually know.’
She shrugged, her eyes darting away momentarily. ‘Another tip from my grandmother.’
He nodded, satisfied. ‘Well, true enough, most farmers would have removed it long ago,’ Jack admitted. ‘Takes water and nutrients from the productive trees. But my great-great-grandfather refused to touch it, and Patrick after him.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Some superstitions make sense.’
They continued walking, but Jack found himself watching Molly more closely now. There was something about her casual reference to the hawthorn – not delivered like a fact learned from a guidebook, but with the offhand familiarity of someone raised on such stories.
Another small piece of the puzzle that was Molly Harris.
A breeze stirred the trees around them, sending a shower of golden leaves spiraling down. One landed in her hair, and before he could think better of it, Jack reached out to pluck it away. His fingers brushed against the dark strands, and he was startled by their softness.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered, withdrawing his hand as if burned. ‘You had a—’ He gestured vaguely.
‘Oh.’ Her cheeks flushed slightly. ‘Thank you.’
An awkward silence fell between them, the easy rhythm of their conversation suddenly disrupted. Jack cleared his throat, pointing toward a particularly fine specimen of Cox’s Orange Pippin.
‘This one’s at peak ripeness now,’ he said, his voice rougher than intended. ‘The perfect balance of sugar and acid.’
He reached up to carefully twist a fruit from its stem, the motion practiced and gentle to avoid damaging the tree. As he handed the apple to Molly, their fingers touched, and Jack felt a jolt of awareness that had nothing to do with apples or marketing campaigns.
‘The skin should have slight resistance,’ he found himself saying, his voice dropping lower as she took the fruit. ‘Then give way to dense, aromatic flesh.’
Molly’s eyes met his, something unspoken passing between them. The orchard seemed to fall away, leaving only this moment, this connection humming in the space between their bodies.
He was suddenly acutely aware of how alone they were among the trees, how the dappled sunlight caught in her dark hair, how her green eyes sparkled in the light.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, and for one disorienting moment, he imagined closing the distance between them, tasting the sweetness he somehow knew would be there.
The thought jolted him back to reality. This was madness.
She was here on holiday – carrying out a silly volunteer project before returning to her real job in New York.
And he was what? Mooning over her like some lovesick teenager because she’d asked good questions about apple varieties and known an old superstition about hawthorn trees?
Jack stepped back abruptly, his boot crushing a fallen apple with a wet sound that broke the spell. ‘We should move on,’ he said, his voice deliberately brisk.
Confusion flickered across Molly’s face, quickly replaced by a neutral professionalism that made him feel both relieved and oddly bereft. ‘Of course,’ she agreed, tucking the apple he’d given her into her pocket. ‘Lead the way.’
The comfortable ease they’d developed had vanished, replaced by a prickling awareness that made the back of Jack’s neck burn. He strode ahead, shoulders rigid with embarrassment at his momentary lapse in judgment.
Behind him, Molly followed in silence, the only sound the continued crunch of leaves beneath their feet and the whisper of the breeze through the apple-laden branches.
The morning wasn’t yet half over, and already Jack was struggling to remember why he’d agreed to this nonsensical arrangement in the first place.