Chapter 2
Molly’s apartment sat fourteen floors above the street, all gleaming surfaces and sharp angles. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the glittering cityscape like expensive wallpaper, the kind of view that featured in luxury real-estate brochures.
She’d been proud of it once, this sleek Soho rental she’d secured after a promotion five years ago. Tonight, as she paced the hardwood floors in bare feet, it felt like an overpriced hotel room; somewhere she stayed, as opposed to lived.
Molly changed into yoga pants and an oversized NYU sweatshirt, her work clothes hanging with precise spacing in a closet full of similar pieces.
Sabbatical. The word still sent a flutter of anxiety through her chest. Projects would advance without her input. The marketing world would continue spinning without Molly Harris at its center.
She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. Below, the city moved in its ceaseless rhythm, headlights and taillights flowing like blood cells through concrete arteries. A whole month stretched before her, empty and unstructured. The thought made her palms sweat.
But today, at least, there was still one more thing on the agenda.
Her grandfather answered on the second ring, his voice warm and slightly gruff. ‘There’s my girl. I was just thinking about you.’ Eddie always said that and Molly never had any idea if it was true.
‘Hey, Pop,’ she said, tension automatically releasing from her shoulders at the familiar sound of his voice. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘Old,’ he replied with a chuckle. ‘But I finished that bookshelf for Mrs Wilson, so I can’t be too decrepit yet.’
‘You should be taking it easy, not building furniture for the neighbors,’ Molly chided, settling onto her couch.
‘Pot, kettle, black,’ he said, the smile evident in his voice. ‘Your brother called earlier. Says you’re working yourself into the ground as usual.’
Molly rolled her eyes. ‘You know Cole’s flair for drama.’
‘Maybe so, but he’s not stupid either.’ Eddie’s tone shifted, losing its teasing edge.
The concern in his voice loosened something in her chest. She curled her feet beneath her and leaned into the phone as if her grandfather was sitting beside her instead of in the Brooklyn home in which Molly was raised.
‘Pop, really, I’m fine,’ she insisted. ‘Just been pushing a bit too hard lately. The boss wants me to take some time off.’
‘Well, I’ll be. And are you going to listen to the guy, or is he just another person you’re going to steamroll?’
Molly couldn’t help smiling. For all his gentle manner, Eddie Harris had never pulled punches. ‘I’m taking the time,’ she said.
His surprise was audible in his sharp intake of breath. ‘Damn, there might be hope for you yet.’
‘Don’t sound so shocked.’
‘Sweetheart, you’ve been running full tilt since you were ten years old. Even as a kid, you had to be the best at everything – best grades, best at piano, best at helping Nan in the kitchen. Taking it easy isn’t exactly in your DNA.’
The mention of her grandmother – the real reason for her call – sent a familiar pang through Molly’s chest. ‘She would be giving me the eyebrow right now, wouldn’t she?’
Eddie laughed softly. ‘Your nan could say more with one raised eyebrow than most people manage in a full conversation. And yes, she’d be telling you to slow down, breathe deep, and remember that life is for living, not just achieving.’
Molly closed her eyes, still able to picture her grandmother’s face so clearly – the fine lines around bright eyes that matched her own, the silver-streaked dark hair always neatly pinned, the hands that moved with grace whether kneading dough or mending clothes.
Impossible to believe a whole year without her had passed already.
‘I miss her,’ she said quietly. ‘Today especially.’
‘Every day,’ Eddie mumbled, his voice thick with emotion. ‘She’d want you to take care of yourself, you know. I always said you were too much like her – all fire and not enough chill.’
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the phone connection bridging the physical distance between Manhattan and Brooklyn, between sleek modernity and the weathered brownstone where she had grown up, raised by Eddie and Aoife after their daughter, Tara – Molly and Cole’s mother – had died prematurely.
They’d never known their dad, who’d disappeared when she and her brother were just toddlers.
‘So what will you do with the time?’ Eddie asked now. ‘A vacation, maybe? Just ensure that whatever it is involves actual rest, and not just working from a different location.’
Molly’s gaze drifted to the window, to the night sky barely visible behind the city’s glow.
‘I think,’ she said suddenly, ‘I might head to Ireland.’
The words hung in the air, weighted with everything unsaid. A half-formed plan that had been far too long in the making.
‘Ireland,’ he repeated, his voice careful. ‘You sure?’
‘I’ve been putting it off for long enough. This might be the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone – get some rest and …’ Molly trailed off, unable to fully articulate the other.
‘She’d love that,’ Eddie said gently, understanding everything she couldn’t say. ‘That you’re finally going, I mean.’
‘I promised her I would,’ she said, throat tightening. ‘And Cole’s right, I’ve just been making excuses.’
‘You just weren’t ready before, is all,’ her grandfather said, the absolution in his voice a balm to Molly’s lingering guilt. ‘Some things can’t be rushed.’
She nodded, tears beginning to form in the corner of her eyes. ‘But first, I should come and spend some time with you, make sure you’re looking after yourself.’
‘I’m not the one who needs looking after, kiddo,’ Eddie said with a hint of his typical gruffness.
‘Cole checks in every other day, and I’ve still got more casseroles in my freezer than I can eat in a month, courtesy of Mrs Wilson and her book club ladies.
I’m doing just fine, and don’t need anyone cramping my style. ’
‘Still,’ Molly persisted, ‘I should visit more often too, I know that.’
‘You’ve been building your life,’ he corrected. ‘That’s what you’re supposed to do. Your grandmother and I didn’t work so hard to give you and your brother opportunities, so you could sit around keeping old folks company.’
The knot in Molly’s chest loosened further. ‘Love you, Pop.’
‘Love you too, kiddo. Now, about Ireland – do you want me to dig out your grandmother’s old address book? Maybe find some cousins from those parts.’
‘Nan told me where I need to go,’ Molly assured him. ‘She talked about Golden Valley so much, I feel like I’ve already been there.’
‘You and me both,’ Eddie joked.
‘The lake,’ Aoife had told them. ‘Not large or dramatic. Just wide and calm. On still days it looks like glass, the sky laid down on the earth. You could stand there and feel as though the world had paused for a moment just to let you breathe.’
Molly pictured it now in her mind – water stretching into the distance, the horizon softened by mist.
‘And the orchard … rows and rows of apple trees on the hills leading down to the shore,’ her grandmother would say.
‘Gnarled trunks and low branches that caught at your sleeves if you weren’t paying attention.
In spring, the blossoms; pale pink, almost white even – it was the most beautiful thing.
In summer, the leaves grew thick and green, but autumn …
autumn was magical. Apples heavy on the branches, the ground scattered with them, bruised but perfect all the same.
The air sharp with cider and earth and rain. ’
Molly could almost smell it.
‘And town,’ Aoife went on. ‘Stone buildings, close together. Doors painted bright, as if to make up for the gray days. Everyone knew who belonged and who didn’t, though they’d never say it aloud.
’ Her grandmother had chuckled faintly. ‘In the mornings, you could smell bread long before you saw the bakery. And the apples would roll loose along the lanes when the carts were full. As kids, we all loved that.’
Molly’s throat tightened. ‘I just … wish she could be there to see it all with me.’
‘She will be,’ Eddie said gently. ‘And you’ll see it exactly the way she would have.’
They talked a few minutes longer about more practical matters; the more preferable Irish airport (Shannon), the weather in Ireland this time of year (unpredictable), the rental car situation (drive on the left, remember) and Pop’s insistence that she bring proper clothing and practical footwear (not those ridiculous heels you wear to the office).
‘I’ll call while I’m there,’ Molly promised. ‘And send pictures.’
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘And, Mol?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m proud of you for doing this, sweetheart. Nan would be too.’
The words settled around her like a warm blanket. ‘Thanks, Pop.’
After hanging up, she sat still for a moment, phone cradled in her palm.
The low-level anxiety that had been her constant companion to the carefully contained grief of last year seemed to have retreated a little.
In its place was a sense of purpose that had nothing to do with client presentations, marketing strategies or determination not to cry.
Molly opened her laptop and navigated to the airline website with practiced efficiency. The ticket prices were higher than she’d like; last-minute bookings always were – but for once, she didn’t hesitate over the cost.
When the confirmation email arrived, she forwarded it to her grandfather, then hesitated before sending a text to Cole:
Listened to you earlier (don’t gloat). Flying to Ireland next week.
His response came almost immediately: Wonders will never cease!
Molly smiled, typing back: Take care of Pop. Will keep you posted.
I always do. And you better do more than that. Daily check-ins or I’ll assume you’ve been kidnapped by fairy folk or something. Seriously though, you’ve got this. :)
Next, Molly moved to her bedroom closet. Unlike the rest of her minimalist apartment, her wardrobe was a testament to careful curation; rows of tailored blazers, pencil skirts, and silk blouses in a palette of neutrals with occasional jewel tones. Business armor, arranged by color and season.
She pushed these aside, reaching instead to the rear corner where rarely worn casual clothes hung with department store tags still attached.
A soft cashmere sweater in forest green and another in red, jeans that hadn’t seen daylight in months, hiking boots she’d bought for a team-building thing that had been canceled when a client emergency arose.
‘Practical,’ she muttered, pulling items from hangers and laying them on the bed. ‘Layers, and rain gear. Obviously.’
‘The seasons are different back home,’ her grandmother used to say.
‘You feel them long before the calendar. Spring comes slowly; blossoms appearing one by one, pink and white against the gray. Summer is just a warmer extension of sunlight really, not hot like it gets here. And autumn is when the land earns its keep.’
As she worked, memories continued to surface like bubbles in still water. Aoife showing her how to fold a sweater properly, small hands guided by weathered ones.
‘Treat your things with respect,’ she’d said in her lilting Tipperary accent, ‘and they’ll serve you for a long time.’
Those same hands teaching Molly to knead dough, weave daisy chains in spring, or press wildflowers between the pages of heavy books. Hands that had written letters to dwindling family members in Ireland, still maintaining connections across the ocean over decades.
She paused, looking at her own hands – smooth and manicured. She hadn’t written a letter in years. Hadn’t baked bread since college. When had efficiency replaced these rituals?
Main packing complete, Molly returned to her closet and stood on tiptoe, reaching for the highest shelf, until her fingers found what they sought; a small parcel wrapped in midnight-blue velvet embroidered with a swirling Celtic symbol, secured with a silver ribbon frayed slightly at the edges.
She brought it down carefully, cradling it in both hands as she carried it to her bed. The velvet was soft against her palms, not heavy in the physical sense, but weighted with significance that made her movements deliberate, reverent.
Molly didn’t need to open it to know what it contained. Had known since the day her grandmother had asked her the favor with uncharacteristic solemnity.
‘When the time is right,’ Aoife had whispered, her voice weakened by age and illness, ‘you’ll know.’
It’s been a year, Mol.
And now it seemed – Cole’s scolding ringing in her ears, and the ache of exhaustion settled deep in her bones – that time had finally arrived.
Molly brought the parcel to her lips, pressing a soft kiss against the velvet before carefully rewrapping it, making sure the ribbon was secure. With deliberate movements, she placed it in her suitcase, nestled between layers of clothes like something precious and breakable.
Aoife would surely have approved of the timing too – autumn in the golden vale, when the light turned amber and the apples ripened. When the veil between worlds grew thin, her grandmother used to say with a wink and a smile that suggested she both believed and didn’t believe the old folklore.
As she prepared for bed, moving through her nightly routine with automatic precision, Molly felt a peculiar sense of lightness. The knot between her shoulder blades had loosened. The constant inner refrain to hold back tears had for once, quieted to a manageable whisper.
‘Sleep well, mo chroí,’ Nan seemed to whisper as Molly drifted off. ‘The journey begins.’