Chapter 28
The Orchard Pub embraced Molly with a wave of warmth as she stepped through its doorway, leaving the cooler evening air behind.
Light spilled from copper lanterns, illuminating low-beamed ceilings stained amber from decades of hearth smoke.
The by-now familiar scent of fermenting apples mingled with the earthy perfume of peat burning in the massive stone hearth created an atmosphere that felt new, yet oddly like coming home.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, scanning the crowded room until she spotted Eva’s bright-yellow bandana bobbing enthusiastically amidst a crowd gathered near the far corner.
Laughter rose and fell above the hum of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses and the creak of worn floorboards beneath shifting feet.
Molly navigated through the packed bar area, brushing past worn wooden chairs and mismatched tables.
Behind the bar, rows of bottles reflected jewel-toned light – amber whiskeys, ruby-red liqueurs and, of course, the golden array of ciders that served as the region’s liquid ambassadors.
In pride of place above the cash register was a framed blue and gold Tipperary hurling jersey, and alongside it an autographed headshot of a broad-chested, deeply handsome jersey-clad player – county team captain perhaps, Molly mused.
The crowd parted slightly as she approached, friendly nods and smiles greeting her arrival. Eva stood at the center of a group of visitors and locals, flour still dusting one eyebrow despite her evening attire of leopard print dress and cowboy ankle boots, her hands moving expressively as always.
‘Ah!’ she called, waving Molly close and holding out a glass of cider. ‘You’re just in time for the barmbrack cutting. Come on, squeeze in here now.’
Molly edged into the crowd beside a silver-haired woman she recognized as the honey seller from the market, and an older man whose weathered face suggested decades spent beneath Tipperary skies.
‘As I was saying,’ Eva continued, brandishing a bread knife with theatrical flair, ‘barmbrack isn’t just fruit bread.
Each loaf hides different charms and what you find in your slice tells your fortune for the year ahead.
’ Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she surveyed the captive audience of tourists.
‘A ring means romance is coming your way. A coin promises wealth. A thimble means you’ll remain single, and the little pea means you won’t settle down this year.
The ring … well, we all know what that means.
’ She lowered her voice dramatically, leaning forward.
‘But watch out for the cloth, now – that’s a warning of hard times ahead. ’
‘My mother found the cloth the year before the big frost killed half the spud crop,’ offered the older man.
‘There you have it,’ Eva said, nodding at the tourists.
Molly’s fingers traced the rim of the glass, the cool smooth edge grounding her as another long-forgotten childhood memory surfaced; Aoife in their Brooklyn kitchen, soaking dried fruit in tea overnight, explaining this special bread that revealed what lay ahead.
She’d never mentioned it was called barmbrack, though.
That detail must have been lost in translation or Molly’s own memory.
The first slice revealed bread studded with plump raisins and candied citrus peel, the warm scent of cinnamon and nutmeg rising with the steam from the freshly cut loaf. Eva placed various pieces on a small plate and passed them around.
‘Guests first,’ she insisted. ‘Careful now, feel around before you bite.’
The bread was still warm, dense with fruit and moist. Molly pressed it gently between her fingers, searching for the hidden charm. Something hard met her touch near the crust, and she carefully extracted a small silver coin.
‘Coin!’ Eva announced triumphantly. ‘Prosperity coming your way, my friend. Though considering what you marketing types charge, that’s hardly surprising.’
Laughter rippled through the group as Eva continued slicing, each piece finding eager hands.
A tourist discovered a tiny ceramic thimble and sighed dramatically, declaring her continued independence from ‘men who’d only make a mess of my house.
’ The weather-faced local found nothing at all and seemed relieved, muttering something about ‘enough surprises in farming without adding more.’
A thin young man with ink-stained fingers bit into his slice and winced, extracting a small metal ring. The group erupted in cheers and good-natured teasing.
‘Poor Liam hasn’t had a date since school,’ Eva stage-whispered to Molly. ‘This’ll give the village matchmakers something to focus on besides Jack and yourself.’
Molly nearly choked on her barmbrack. ‘There’s no … we’re not—’
‘Save your protests for someone who hasn’t seen you two making eyes at each other all week,’ Eva dismissed with a wink.
The brack continued its journey around the circle, fortunes received with varying degrees of seriousness and laughter. Until Molly felt a prickling awareness at the back of her neck and turned slightly to find the source.
Jack stood at the bar, his dark eyes fixed unmistakably on her. Unlike his usual wary observation, his gaze held something softer tonight– curiosity perhaps, or appreciation even. When their eyes met, he didn’t look away but offered a small nod of acknowledgment.
The overhead light caught the strong angles of his face, softening the usual serious set of his mouth.
His ever-present worn leather jacket hung open over a navy shirt that looked freshly ironed, and his hair, usually tousled by orchard winds, appeared to have indeed been – as Eva mentioned earlier – deliberately brushed.
The overall effect was striking enough that Molly felt heat rise to her cheeks as she returned his nod with a small smile.
‘What did I tell you?’ Eva murmured beside her, having tracked Molly’s gaze. ‘He’s even wearing his good shirt. Patrick must have forced him into it at gunpoint.’
Through the open windows and doors, music filtered in from the square – the sweet, mournful notes of a fiddle rising above the deeper rhythm of guitar and banjo.
It wasn’t purely traditional music – Molly could detect contemporary guitar influences in the arrangement – but it carried the soul of it.
She took a sip of the harvest special cider, savoring the complex notes that she now recognized as distinctive to Goldenridge’s heritage varieties.
Thanks to Jack’s impromptu tasting session in the barn, she could identify the sharp brightness of Cavan Russet balanced against the mellower sweetness of Cox’s Orange Pippin.
Each sip connected her to the orchard, to the trees whose branches she’d walked beneath, to the barrels she’d seen aging in amber-lit stillness.
As Eva distributed the last of the barmbrack, a collective gasp rose from the far end of the circle. A dignified woman in her sixties held up a small piece of cloth between trembling fingers.
‘The cloth,’ she whispered, her face paling slightly beneath her practical makeup.
A momentary hush fell over the group, the weight of superstition temporarily silencing even the most skeptical among them. Eva reached out, placing a reassuring hand on the woman’s arm.
‘It’s just fun, Maura,’ she said gently. ‘And sure, we all face hard times now and then. Nothing we can’t handle together.’
Molly noticed Jack watching the interaction with interest from the bar, his expression thoughtful. When he caught her looking, he raised his glass slightly in her direction – a silent toast across the crowded room, and she nodded a greeting in return.
The music outside shifted to a livelier tune, the tempo quickening as more instruments joined in.
The notes danced through the open door, tugging at the pub’s patrons like an invisible tide.
Small groups began to drift outside, drawn by the irresistible rhythm and the promise of dancing under the lights.
‘Shall we?’ Eva suggested, gathering up empty plates with practiced efficiency. ‘Real fun’s just starting.’
Molly nodded, finishing her drink in one final sip. As they prepared to join the migration outdoors, her gaze once again found Jack. He had moved from his position by the bar and now stood closer, his path clearly intended to intercept theirs.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked, his voice pitched just loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise.
‘Very much,’ Molly replied, suddenly aware of how near he stood, close enough that she could detect the faint scent of cedar and apples that seemed to cling to him regardless of setting. ‘Eva’s been telling fortunes with barmbrack. Apparently, I’m coming into money.’
‘Is that right?’ His mouth curved into a half-smile. ‘Hopefully some of that will rub off on Goldenridge.’
A subtle shift had occurred between them since their rain-soaked conversation in the cider barn – a lowering of defenses, a tentative trust emerging from mutual vulnerability.
It revealed itself in small ways – the ease with which they now stood together, the absence of the wariness that had characterized their early interactions, the way his eyes lingered on her face as they spoke.
‘How did the meeting go?’ she asked, keen to find out if her attempts might have helped at all.
‘Come on, you two!’ Before he could reply, Eva called from the doorway, her figure silhouetted against the twinkling lights outside. ‘They’re playing a jig, and I need witnesses to my legendary spinning skills.’ She smiled mischievously at Jack. ‘And a partner.’
He gestured toward the door with a slight incline of his head.
‘Will we?’ he asked Molly, his tone light but his eyes holding a question that seemed to extend far beyond the immediate invitation. She nodded, strangely nervous and excited all at once.
Jack’s gaze rested on her face. ‘And no work tonight – only play.’