Chapter 34
Molly traced her steps back through the orchard, each footfall heavier than the last. The morning sun that had seemed so promising now felt harsh against her skin, exposing every vulnerability she’d tried to keep hidden.
Jack’s words still echoed in her mind, sharp-edged and cutting. ‘I trusted you.’ Past tense.
The finality in his voice had left no room for explanation. Her chest ached with a hollowness that surprised her with its intensity; they’d known each other such a short time, yet his rejection carved a wound far deeper than it had any right to.
The dampened grass clung to her boots as she walked, leaving prints that would vanish with the sun’s ascent, ephemeral marks of her passage through Goldenridge. How fitting that even the evidence of her presence here would soon disappear, as if she’d never walked these paths at all.
She brushed away tears with an impatient hand, angry at herself for the display of emotion. This wasn’t who she was – Molly Harris didn’t cry over misunderstandings, over men who jumped to conclusions without giving her a chance to explain. She compartmentalized, and strategized, moved forward.
Always forward.
Yet something about Jack Flynn had bypassed all her carefully constructed defenses.
The same stubbornness that now condemned her had also drawn her in – his fierce protection of Goldenridge, his reluctant smile when she said something that amused him despite himself, the surprising gentleness in his calloused hands when they’d danced last night beneath the festival lights.
‘I’m not who you think I am,’ she whispered to the empty path, words that had fallen on deaf ears when she’d spoken them to Jack.
She hadn’t come to Golden Valley to help developers acquire Goldenridge, true enough.
But neither had she been entirely forthright about her reasons for her interest in the land.
As she crested the small rise that overlooked Golden Valley, Molly paused. The village spread below her, stone buildings nestled against the backdrop of hills and lake. Festival decor fluttered between lampposts, bright triangles of color against the weathered facades.
So much planning on her grandmother’s part had gone into her trip here, yet in less than two weeks, this place had become more than just the setting for a promise fulfilled. It had become something Molly looked forward to waking up to each morning, its rhythm somehow familiar despite its novelty.
And now she would leave it, mission incomplete in more ways than one, for Jack surely wouldn’t allow her to return to the oak to carry out Aoife’s task. Nor allow the orchard to benefit from her efforts, as he’d surely discard all of her ideas for the business, bank loan be damned.
The very thought settled like a stone in her stomach.
No, Molly decided then. She’d failed at many things in her life, but never at a professional commitment. Whatever Jack thought of her personally, she had promised that she would help with Goldenridge’s marketing.
And that, at least, was a promise she could still keep.
With renewed purpose, Molly continued down the path into the village, an idea already taking shape.
Day two of the festival was now well underway, locals back at their market stalls while visitors wandered the square. She skirted the central activity, not ready to face Eva’s perceptive gaze, or worse, teasing about Jack.
Instead, she headed for Wildflower Books, its distinctive hand-painted sign swinging gently in the morning breeze.
The shop enveloped her immediately; the scent of paper and ink mingled with plants and flowers arranged haphazardly throughout the space.
Worn wooden shelves lined walls of exposed stone, their contents organized not by standard categories but by intriguingly named sections: ‘For Rainy Afternoons’, ‘When You Need Courage’, ‘Books That Feel Like Coming Home’.
Most striking was the ceiling that Molly hadn’t noticed on her first day – a painted mural of native Irish wildflowers spreading across the entire surface, each bloom labeled in elegant script with both English and Irish names.
She found herself looking up, momentarily distracted from her purpose by the beauty of the artistic rendering.
‘They say if you stare at it long enough, you’ll find the flower that matches your soul.’
The voice startled Molly from her contemplation. She lowered her gaze to find the friendly proprietor watching her from behind the counter, intelligent eyes set in a face lined with what appeared to be equal measures of laughter and concentration.
Maeve Gleeson, mother of Conor, the lead singer of last night’s band, Jack had told her.
‘It’s just so beautiful,’ Molly replied, gesturing toward the ceiling. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like it.’
‘My late husband’s work,’ Maeve explained, pride evident in her voice. ‘He painted one flower each year on our anniversary. Took seventeen years to complete.’ Her gaze sharpened as she studied Molly’s face. ‘You look like you’ve had a difficult morning, pet. Late one last night?’
The gentle observation, delivered without prying, nearly undid Molly’s composure. She swallowed hard, forcing a smile. ‘No, I didn’t drink much. But yes, this morning’s been … challenging. Is it that obvious?’
‘Only to someone who’s spent a lifetime watching people find comfort in books,’ Maeve replied, her tone matter-of-fact as opposed to pitying. ‘Were you looking for something specific, or just a quiet corner?’
‘Actually,’ Molly began, gathering herself, ‘I wanted to ask about Hearthland. Their song from last night.’
Maeve’s expression brightened with maternal pride. ‘“Beneath the Oak”? That one’s special – Conor wrote it during his final year in Dublin when homesickness was eating him alive. What’s your interest, if you don’t mind my asking?’
As Molly explained, something flickered in Maeve’s expression – curiosity, perhaps, or recognition. ‘I thought Jack wasn’t interested in all that stuff. He was pretty clear about that in the café that day.’
‘He wasn’t. Isn’t,’ Molly corrected herself, the shift to present tense a painful acknowledgment of their morning confrontation. ‘But circumstances change. The business situation is … challenging. And he’s too stubborn to admit it.’
Understanding dawned in Maeve’s eyes. She nodded slowly, hands clasped in her lap. ‘Jack Flynn, stubborn? There’s a surprise. But I still don’t know where the song comes in.’
But when Molly told her what she had in mind, Maeve smiled.
‘Oh, the boys would only be thrilled. Conor especially – that song means the world to him,’ she continued, clearly proud of her son’s music.
‘He was studying sound engineering in Dublin – the first in our family to leave Golden Valley for university. Hated every minute of city life, though he loved the course itself.’ Her fingers tapped gently against the countertop, finding rhythm in the memory.
‘Called home every Sunday evening in tears for the first month. Not that he’d admit to it now, mind you. ’
Molly smiled despite herself, thinking of Cole’s similar stubborn pride as a youngster whenever he lost a hockey game.
‘He’d visit the oak whenever he came home,’ Maeve continued.
‘Said it was the one constant in a changing world. That tree’s seen generations of locals grow up, watched young lovers become parents, then grandparents.
’ A wistful quality entered her voice. ‘So he wrote “Beneath the Oak” during finals week, after he’d been too busy to come home for nearly three months.
Said the melody came to him fully formed, like the tree itself was sending it across the country to remind him where he belonged. ’
The idea resonated with something deep in Molly’s chest – that same sense of belonging, of connection to place, that had eluded her for so long. Had Golden Valley begun to fill that void? Was that why Jack’s rejection hurt with such unexpected intensity?
‘The lyrics about carving names,’ she ventured carefully. ‘It’s based on actual tradition then?’
‘Oh yes,’ Maeve confirmed, eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Some say when you carve your initials with your beloved on The Wishing Oak, the love lasts forever. Others claim it’s magical – that wishes made beneath its branches always come true, though sometimes in unexpected ways.’
The hairs on Molly’s arms stood up, a physical reaction to words that seemed to speak directly to her unspoken purpose. Her grandmother’s own stories echoed in the song itself – tales of wishes granted and promises kept, of a tree that remembered what people forgot.
Exactly why the song had captured her attention last night.
‘More than that,’ Maeve went on, ‘I’ve always considered it a keeper of stories – surprise, surprise.
’ She laughed. ‘A Golden Valley archive in living wood. My own parents’ initials are there somewhere, though the bark has surely grown over them by now.
Most of the couples in the village have marks on that tree, going back generations. ’
‘It’s a beautiful tradition,’ Molly said, now keen to get to work. ‘And thank you for permission to use the song. I’ll make sure Hearthland gets proper credit.’
Maeve moved back toward the counter. ‘Maybe give me your email and I’ll get Conor to ping you the master, save you having to find it?’
‘That would be amazing,’ Molly agreed, grateful for the practical focus. They exchanged contact information, Maeve promising to have her son reach out asap.
As Molly prepared to leave, the older woman selected a small book from behind the counter and handed it to her. ‘A little gift,’ she said with a warm smile.
The volume was slim, bound in soft green cloth with a simple title embossed in gold: Coming Home to Yourself. Inside, the pages contained poems about belonging and finding peace, the margins decorated with delicate illustrations of native Irish wildflowers.
‘I couldn’t possibly—’ Molly began, but Maeve shook her head firmly.
‘Books always find their rightful owners at just the right time,’ she insisted, smiling.
Something about the simple kindness – offered without expectation or agenda – broke through the fragile composure Molly had maintained since her confrontation with Jack. She clutched the book to her chest, blinking rapidly against unexpected tears.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
Maeve patted her arm gently. ‘Whatever’s troubling you, pet, always remember that stones still remain after storms pass.’
The phrase nearly undid Molly completely. She nodded, unable to speak further, and made her way to the door.
Outside, the festival sounds created a cheerful backdrop that felt discordant against Molly’s internal landscape. Yet alongside the ache in her chest, a quiet determination had taken root.
Jack might never trust her again, might never know the truth about why she’d come to Golden Valley. But she could still keep her promise to help Goldenridge, could still create something that might make a difference to the orchard’s future.
And perhaps, find a way to let him know how much she truly cared.