Chapter 20
Molly followed Jack’s stiff-shouldered figure through the orchard rows, the warmth of their earlier connection rapidly cooling in the autumn air.
Something had shifted between them among the apple trees just now – a moment of unexpected intimacy that had clearly rattled him.
Now he moved with deliberate haste, putting physical distance between them as if to compensate for that brief, electric moment when his fingers had brushed against her hair.
‘Time for a break,’ he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes. ‘Tea OK for you?’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak just yet.
The moment had affected her too, more than she cared to admit, leaving her pulse fluttering in a way that complicated her already complex reasons for being in Golden Valley.
This wasn’t part of the plan – this deepening awareness of Jack Flynn as more than an obstacle.
They walked in silence along a narrow path that curved away from the main orchard, winding between a row of native trees whose massive trunks dwarfed the apple varieties they’d been examining.
The path opened onto a small clearing where a small cottage stood, nestled against the hillside as if it had grown from the earth itself.
The cottage was smaller than she’d imagined, built of weathered gray stone with a slate roof turned silvery with age.
Climbing roses, now past their prime but still bearing the occasional late bloom, framed the doorway in a tangle of woody stems. The front garden was a study in practical beauty – no manicured lawns or fussy ornamentals, but neat beds of herbs interspersed with late-blooming wildflowers in shades of purple and gold.
Apple trees, unsurprisingly, dominated one side of the clearing, their branches extending protectively over the cottage roof.
What struck Molly most was how seamlessly the dwelling fit its surroundings.
Unlike the jarring newness of tourist cottages she’d seen just outside the village, with their too-perfect thatching and chocolate-box charm, this home bore the patina of genuine history.
It belonged here, as did he.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Jack said, moving toward the entrance. ‘Won’t be long.’
He disappeared inside, the door closing behind him with a soft thud that made it clear she wasn’t being invited to follow.
The exclusion stung slightly, though Molly understood it.
His home represented another boundary, another level of intimacy he wasn’t prepared to cross.
She was still trying to figure out how she should broach the subject of the oak tree and why she needed access to it. Maybe over the shared warm drink?
Molly approached a small workbench that stood against one wall of the cottage.
Tools hung in neat rows – pruning shears in graduated sizes, grafting knives with worn handles, coils of wire and twine.
Each implement had its designated place, speaking to Jack’s methodical nature.
Yet there was artistry here too – a half-carved piece of wood sat on the bench beside a whittling knife, the wood grain exposed in gentle curves that captured the fruit’s essence.
‘Good likeness, isn’t it?’
The voice startled her. Molly turned to find Patrick emerging from around the corner of a nearby barn, his weathered face creasing into a smile.
He moved toward her with unhurried steps, his gait betraying the slight stiffness of age managed with dignity.
One hand rested lightly on a walking stick – not leaning heavily, but using it for balance as he navigated the uneven ground.
‘Your great-nephew is talented,’ she replied, gesturing toward the carving. ‘In more ways than one.’
‘That he is.’ Patrick’s eyes, bright and alert in his time-worn face, studied her again with undisguised interest. ‘Though he’d never admit to it. Especially not the artistic bit.’
He reached her side, his movements deliberate but not frail. Yet there was nothing diminished about Patrick Flynn. His handshake was firm, his gaze clear and perceptive. He stood straight despite the subtle curve of age in his shoulders, and when he smiled, years fell away from his face.
‘I hear you’ve been drafted into service by our Tidy Towns committee,’ he said, his voice carrying the melodic lilt of rural Ireland softened by age into a gentle burr. ‘The village is buzzing about this New York marketing whizz who’s going to put us on the map.’
Molly laughed softly, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘We were both basically strong-armed into it,’ she admitted. ‘Your nephew more than I.’
Patrick’s eyes twinkled knowingly as he replied, ‘Some things are meant to be.’
There was something in his tone that made Molly wonder if he was referring to more than just the marketing arrangement.
A hint of mischief, perhaps, or deeper knowledge.
His gaze, still sharp despite the years that had faded his hair color to silver, seemed to look right through her oh-so-casual persona.
‘Jack’s gone to make tea,’ she mumbled, changing the subject slightly. ‘Hope he has enough for three.’
‘Oh, he’ll have seen me coming up the path.
Eyes like a hawk, that fella.’ Patrick gestured toward the wooden bench beneath the older tree.
‘Shall we sit while we wait? These old bones appreciate a rest more than they used to.’ He moved toward the bench with careful steps, one hand still lightly holding the walking stick.
‘Join me,’ he said then, patting the space beside him.
‘Best view of the orchard from this spot. My ’oul fella claimed you could see all the way to the lake on a clear day, though my eyes haven’t been able to confirm that for some years now. ’
Molly settled beside him, the wood smooth and sun-warmed beneath her. From this vantage point, the orchard spread before them in orderly rows, the trees heavy with fruit in varying shades of green, gold, and red.
‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked, genuinely curious about this man whose lined face held so much history. And figuring for the first time that he might even have known her grandmother. Should she ask?
Patrick leaned back, his weathered hands coming to rest on his knees. ‘All my life,’ he said simply. ‘Born in the back bedroom of that cottage seventy-eight years ago come December.’
Molly studied him as he spoke, noting how his hands – those gnarled, capable hands that had tended apple trees for decades – moved expressively despite the swollen joints.
His forearms, exposed where he’d rolled up his sleeve, were corded with muscle developed through a lifetime of physical labor and maintained through continued use.
‘The place gets in your blood,’ Patrick continued, his gaze roaming the neat rows with evident pride.
‘My father used to say Flynns had apple sap instead of plain blood in our veins. Some mornings I think he might have been right.’ He shifted slightly, adjusting his position with the careful movements of someone who had learned to manage chronic discomfort without complaint.
‘Jack tells me you’ve a keen interest in our story,’ he said, those sharp eyes returning to her face.
‘Not many visitors look beyond the pretty red apples in the shop.’
‘Like I told you last time, this place has true character,’ Molly replied honestly. ‘And history. That’s worth preserving.’
Something like approval flickered across Patrick’s features. ‘Indeed it is. Though the preserving gets harder each year, with the big commercial outfits pushing their bland, tasteless stuff.’
They fell silent for a moment, watching a pair of blackbirds dart between the trees in a flash of glossy wings. The orchard hummed with subtle wildlife, and Molly felt that time seemed to move differently here, measured in seasons rather than minutes.
The cottage door creaked, and they both turned to see Jack emerging with a tray of steaming mugs. He paused when he spotted them together, an unreadable expression crossing his face before he resumed his approach, boots crunching on the gravel path.
‘I see you’ve found one other again,’ he said, his tone careful, neutral.
Patrick smiled, the expression transforming his weathered face. ‘Just telling Molly here about the view. Whether you can really see the lake from here, or if that was just another of Paddy senior’s tall tales.’
Jack’s shoulders relaxed slightly at his great-uncle’s easy manner. He set the tray on a small table beside the bench – a weathered piece that looked as if it had served this purpose for generations of tea drinkers before them.
Molly accepted a mug with murmured thanks, wrapping her fingers around the warm ceramic.
Steam rose in fragrant curls, carrying the scent of strong black tea and something else – apple blossoms?
She wondered if it was her imagination or if everything here was infused with the essence of the orchard, even down to the tea they drank.
She sipped carefully, watching over the rim as Jack and Patrick exchanged glances, some unspoken communication passing between them that indicated years of shared understanding.
‘The Spartans in the west section need attention before the frost,’ Patrick said, picking up what was clearly an ongoing conversation between them. ‘Saw signs of collar rot starting on two trees near the stone wall.’
Jack nodded, his earlier discomfort seemingly forgotten as they slipped into the familiar territory of orchard management. ‘Noticed it last week. Already treated them with copper paste, but we should probably plan for replacement next season.’
‘Shame,’ Patrick sighed. ‘Those were good producers.’