Chapter 27
In her room, Molly perched on the armchair by the window, her phone almost incongruous against the traditional backdrop.
Outside, Golden Valley was still transforming for the festival, windows lighting up across the village square, the distant sound of music drifting up from below as the band started up.
The screen brightened as Cole’s call connected, his familiar face appearing with a wide grin that immediately eased something tight in Molly’s chest.
Her mind still hummed with the implications of the photograph – tangible proof of her grandmother’s life here, of her friendship with Brid.
She hadn’t expected to find such direct evidence of Aoife’s past so casually displayed on the hotel wall and wondered how on earth she’d spent all this time here without noticing it.
But then again, Molly only ever knew her as Nan, not as a young Irish woman full of her own hopes and dreams.
‘Hey,’ her brother greeted, his voice slightly tinny through the phone’s speakers. He was freshly showered, hair still damp, wearing a team-branded hoodie that suggested he was on his way to hockey practice. ‘How’s life in the land of shamrocks and leprechauns?’
‘Ha! Neither of which I’ve encountered yet,’ Molly replied with a smile, settling more comfortably against the windowsill.
‘Please tell me you’re not holed up in your room working,’ Cole said, severity creasing his brow as, behind her on the desk, he caught sight of her open laptop and notes from her work on the Goldenridge campaign yesterday. ‘This was supposed to be a relaxing retreat, Mol.’
‘I’ll have you know I’m actually headed out to the harvest festival in exactly—’ she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece ‘—five minutes. So make it quick.’
Cole leaned closer to the camera, his expression growing more serious. ‘Pops and I were both just wondering … have you made it to the magic tree yet?’
The question sobered Molly afresh. ‘Not yet,’ she admitted, absently twisting a strand of hair around her finger – a nervous habit she thought she’d outgrown years ago.
‘Like I said, it’s … complicated. The oak is on private property and the owner …
’ She shifted, adjusting the phone so Cole couldn’t see the flush she felt rising to her cheeks. ‘He’s … warming up to me.’
Cole’s eyebrows shot up, a knowing grin spreading across his face. ‘The angry hot farmer?’
‘And don’t kill me –’ Molly winced, ignoring the remark – ‘but I’m actually helping him with some marketing stuff.’
‘I knew it!’ Her brother harrumphed, the sound echoing slightly in his minimalist apartment. ‘Seriously, you just can’t help yourself, can you? Workaholic doesn’t even begin to describe it.’
‘It’s nothing, honestly; just a few projections for a bank loan and a social media thing. I’ll send it to you when it’s done, actually; maybe you could give it a share.’
It was impossible to explain to Cole about the true task she’d undertaken for Goldenridge, about the hours spent with Jack learning the orchard’s history, about the moment in the cider barn that had almost tipped into something more.
Her brother knew her too well – would see immediately how entangled Molly’s heart was becoming with what should have been a simple mission.
‘And this is all part of your charm offensive? Mol, haven’t you considered just telling the guy the truth?’ Cole suggested, his tone gentler now. ‘That we’re just trying to fulfill Nan’s last wish?’
She sighed, turning to gaze out the window at the village square below, where the last light of day had given way to the soft blue of evening.
‘Of course I have. But like I said, he’s suspicious of outsiders, and now it seems wrong to suddenly reveal that I’m not just a tourist like I told him.
Besides,’ she added, ‘there’s more to it now.
I’ve sort of … gotten entangled with the locals too. ’
‘Entangled how?’ Cole pressed, clearly sensing her evasiveness.
‘Just helping out. Making friends even.’ Molly kept her tone deliberately casual, brushing past specifics, like her fondness for Patrick and her growing feelings for Jack.
‘There’s a woman who runs the local café – Eva, same age as us.
She’s funny, direct, no patience for nonsense.
Makes incredible baked goods. I’ve put on about ten pounds since I got here. ’
Cole guffawed. ‘She single by any chance?’
‘Famously so, according to herself.’ Molly grinned, relieved at the change of subject. ‘Used to go out with some famous hurler apparently, but is now looking for, and I quote, “a good strong man who doesn’t need someone to mammy him”. ’
‘Good strong man – check,’ her brother quipped, his interest clearly piqued. ‘What else does this Eva do besides baking and setting high standards?’
‘She’s addicted to real-estate renovation TV shows, coaches her niece’s camogie team, knows the entire village. Has a laugh that makes everyone in range smile automatically.’ Molly found herself warming to the topic.
‘Got a picture?’
‘I’m not showing you creeper shots of my new friend!’ Molly laughed. ‘But if you like, I’ll casually mention my charming, pro athlete brother to her sometime. Test the waters.’
He grinned. ‘You do that. Though I don’t know what good it’ll do, since you’re coming home next week,’ he pointed out, and the thought of leaving Golden Valley sent an unexpected pang through Molly’s chest. ‘Aren’t you?
’ Cole’s expression turned more serious.
‘From the way you’re talking about the place, it almost sounds like you’re putting down roots. ’
The observation struck uncomfortably close to truth.
Molly glanced around the cozy room with its handcrafted furniture and views across the lake, thinking of the connections she’d formed in such a short space of time – Eva’s cheery friendship, Anna’s quiet warmth, Patrick’s gentle wisdom, Jack’s complicated pull on her heart.
Even Brid’s scrutiny had begun to feel like a form of belonging.
‘I’m here to do what Nan asked,’ she said firmly, as much to remind herself as to answer Cole. ‘Everything else is just temporary.’
He studied her through the screen, his expression softening with understanding. ‘But you are enjoying it,’ he observed. ‘This village, these people. I can see it in your face, Mol. You look … lighter somehow. More you.’
Molly didn’t know how to respond to that – to the truth of it, to the implications for her carefully constructed life back home.
She’d come to Ireland with a singular mission, expecting to complete it efficiently and return to her normal routine.
Instead, she found herself caught up in village life, in helping a small family business, in feelings for a man who still didn’t know her true purpose for being here.
‘I should … go,’ she said instead, glancing at the clock. ‘I’m meeting Eva at the pub soon.’
Cole nodded, understanding her deflection but not pushing further. ‘Enjoy. But, Molls?’ His expression grew more serious. ‘Remember why you went there, OK. Nan’s wish is important.’
‘I know,’ Molly said softly. ‘I haven’t forgotten. I’ll find a way to the oak tree, I promise.’
His smile returned. ‘Call me after you’ve completed the mission. And once you’ve properly won over your brooding orchard owner.’
‘Goodbye, Cole!’ Molly sang firmly, though she couldn’t help returning his smile.
‘Send me pictures of baker girl, ’k?’ he blurted out just before she ended the call.
The screen went dark, leaving Molly alone with her thoughts in the quiet room.
Outside, darkness had fully settled over Golden Valley, the square now illuminated by streetlamps and the glow from shop windows.
The opening notes of a song floated up through the air, as if sirening villagers and visitors alike.
Molly stood and moved to the wooden wardrobe, selecting a floral wrap dress and a pair of black knee-high leather boots.
As she changed, her thoughts circled back to Cole’s observations – about roots, about the change he’d noticed in her, about the need to remember her true purpose here.
The oak tree remained her goal, the reason she’d traveled here in the first place.
Her grandmother’s final wish still waited to be fulfilled.
Yet in pursuing that mission, Molly had somehow found herself threaded into the fabric of Golden Valley in ways she hadn’t anticipated. The business advice for Goldenridge. Fondness for Patrick, friendship with Eva and fun with the locals.
And above all, the complex, growing connection with Jack Flynn that trembled on the edge of something far deeper than landowner permission.
Molly applied a touch of mascara and a hint of red lipstick, studying her reflection in the antique mirror above the dresser.
The woman who looked back at her seemed both familiar and strange – still Molly Harris, Manhattan marketing exec, but somehow softened around the edges, changed subtly by the Tipperary air and the connections she’d formed here.
The small midnight-blue pouch remained tucked into the wardrobe, a constant reminder of her purpose. Molly reached in and touched it gently, feeling the velvet softness beneath her fingertips.
‘Soon, Nan,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll get there. I promise.’