Chapter 4 #2
Her grandmother had spoken of this also, of course – the Irish weather’s quick-changing moods and how rain could sweep across the lake like a curtain being drawn.
‘We’re all ruled by the weather,’ she’d say watching a Brooklyn thunderstorm from their front window, while Cole complained about a missed hockey game.
‘Learn to live alongside it, not against it.’
The bus slowed as they entered Golden Valley village proper, passing a row of buildings, one with a hand-painted sign that read The Orchard Pub in faded lettering.
Next, a row of charming shopfronts – a bookstore with a display of colorful volumes in the window called Wildflower Books, a cozy café Molly didn’t catch the name of, and a small convenience store, butcher and pharmacy side by side.
‘This is the square coming up now,’ the driver said, helpfully announcing Molly’s stop.
She nodded, gathering her things, suddenly nervous.
The rain streaked down the window glass now, transforming the village into an impressionist painting of blurred colors and shapes.
Yet even through this watery lens, Golden Valley was unmistakably real, solid and present in a way that even Aoife’s most vivid description failed to capture.
The bus pulled into a quaint area paved with cobblestones, stopping beneath a tired-looking bus shelter that offered minimal protection from the elements. ‘Watch your step getting off now – cobbles can be slippery when wet.’
Molly rose on stiff legs as she slung her case over her shoulder with careful movements. The velvet parcel within seemed to almost pulse with its own energy now.
Her first step off the bus sent a shock of cold through her suede ankle boots – not the wisest choice as it turned out, but still better than the flimsier flats.
Rain pelted her head and shoulders, instantly transforming her makeup into something more abstract.
She tugged the case strap higher on her shoulder and waited as the bus driver hefted her suitcase from the luggage compartment underneath.
It emerged already glistening with rain despite its brief exposure to the elements.
‘The Glen Arms Hotel is right at the top of the square,’ he said, pointing through the downpour. ‘Can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For all the advice, I mean. It was nice to hear about the place.’
He smiled, the creases around his eyes deepening. ‘Ah, sure, we all love the chats around here, as you’ll soon find out. Enjoy your visit. Despite the wet welcome,’ he added, rolling his eyes at the rain.
As the bus pulled away with a hiss of tires on wet stone, leaving Molly alone in the increasing downpour, she gripped the handle of her suitcase with determination.
The first tug sent water spraying from a puddle onto her already dampening pants. The second revealed a more pressing problem – the suitcase wheels, perfectly adequate for the smooth floors of JFK and Shannon airports, were completely unsuited to old cobblestones slick with rain.
The wheels caught between stones, jammed against uneven edges, and skidded sideways when they hit particularly smooth, worn patches.
Each step required a calculated readjustment, a fresh battle of will against physics and architecture.
Another tug. Another spray of water, higher this time, splashing the hem of her jacket.
The rain intensified, as if taking Molly’s determination as a personal challenge. She could barely see through the water streaming down her face, her hair now plastered to her scalp in dripping tendrils.
Through rain-blurred vision, the village revealed itself further in glimpses and fragments.
The famed square was smaller than she’d imagined – more intimate than grand, enclosed by buildings that huddled together like old friends.
In the middle stood a curious ornate stone fountain, water streaming down its carved surface and pooling around the base.
All around the square, not-yet-open shop fronts glowed with warm interior light. The bookstore on one side, its bay window displaying volumes arranged by color rather than genre, creating a rainbow effect visible even through the rain.
Only the doors of the café stood ajar, the scent of early baking wafting out to mingle with the rain-soaked air.
A wooden sign swung in the wind above it, The Cherry Blossom Café.
Alongside it, a butcher shop, the sign lettering barely legible from where Molly stood: Carved Oak Butchers – Est. 1847.
Her marketing brain activated involuntarily, assessing the place as if it were a potential client.
The color scheme was inconsistent – duck-egg blue beside forest green, alongside weathered stone – yet somehow harmonious.
The hand-painted signs displayed craftsmanship and the overall aesthetic was hotch-potch but authentic, giving the impression of a place that had evolved organically rather than being designed for appeal.
A woman hurried past, dressed in a waxed jacket, a small dog trotting at her heels.
She nodded with casual friendliness, seemingly unbothered by the weather.
‘Howya,’ she called out, as if Molly was a familiar neighbor rather than a bedraggled stranger fighting a losing battle with luggage and elements.
‘Hello,’ Molly replied automatically, the word half-swallowed by a gust of wind.
The woman and dog continued across the square without breaking stride, disappearing into the café. Moments later, an older man on a bicycle pedaled past, completely unbothered by the rain or the wind, his lack of rain gear suggesting either extraordinary optimism or complete surrender.
Molly felt acutely foreign suddenly – not just American, but urban. A creature of climate-controlled offices and ride-share apps, thrust into a world where rain wasn’t an inconvenience; just a condition of existence.
Her jacket, designed more for style than function, had surrendered completely.
Water trickled down her neck and between her shoulder blades, cold fingers tracing her spine.
Her pants, increasingly sodden, clung to her legs with clammy insistence.
The suitcase, as if sensing her moment of distraction, chose that precise moment to tip sideways, landing in a puddle with a decisive splash.
‘Perfect …’ Molly muttered, yanking it upright.
She stood still for a moment, rain streaming down her face, as she checked her phone, trying to get her bearings.
The driver had said the hotel was at the top of the square, but which way was considered the top or the bottom?
In the downpour, both looked equally possible and equally uninviting.
Her eyes stung with a mixture of rain and exhaustion-fueled emotion.
This was not how she’d imagined her arrival.
In the countless times she’d pictured this journey – initially when Nan had made the request, and more recently when Molly’d made the decision to come – she’d somehow always envisioned sunshine.
Golden light catching on the lake’s surface, the village warm and welcoming, perhaps someone from her grandmother’s past recognizing her immediately (‘those Brennan eyes!’).
A Hollywood version of an Irish homecoming.
Instead Molly stood lost, drenched and shivering in a unfamiliar place, her expensive luggage proving useless, her carefully planned wardrobe increasingly waterlogged, with no clear direction and definitely no welcoming committee.
She felt a laugh bubble up from somewhere deep inside her.
Of course it would rain. Of course her suitcase wheels would catch on every cobblestone. Of course she would look like a drowned rat within minutes of arrival.
Aoife would have loved this moment – would have thrown her head back and laughed at the sky, arms spread wide to embrace the chaos. Molly’s grandmother had never met a situation she couldn’t find humor in, even when that humor had a sharp edge of irony.
‘You’re overthinking it, mo chroí,’ she seemed to whisper now through the rain. ‘The path only reveals itself to those who start walking.’