Chapter 5
Jack Flynn’s steel-toe boots splashed through puddles with indifferent ease as he unloaded crates from the back of his mud-spattered pickup.
Raindrops sneaked beneath the collar of his worn leather jacket, but he barely noticed it anymore – this time of year meant accepting you’d be damp more often than dry.
The weight of each crate felt right in his hands, the familiar burn across his shoulders a testament to years spent hauling the fruits of his labor from orchard to village and beyond.
He set another crate beside The Orchard Pub’s service entrance, nodding at the proprietor through the half-open door. ‘Last one.’
‘Good man yourself,’ Seamus O’Shea called back. ‘Though who’ll be drinking it in this weather is beyond me.’
Jack glanced up at the sky, gray as slate and just as unyielding. ‘Ah, that’ll clear by noon.’
‘Let me guess, the apple trees told you.’
Jack’s mouth quirked into the closest thing he had to a smile. ‘West orchard never fails.’
Seamus guffawed. ‘I’ll take your word over the apps any day, to be fair.’
Jack turned back to his truck, delivery complete. He didn’t mind the rain at all. If anything, it kept the nuisance day-trippers away, leaving the village to those who respected its rhythms and peculiarities. September rain meant the apples would be plump and sweet, the cider rich with tannins.
The square was quiet at this hour, only a few business owners setting up behind rain-streaked windows before opening.
Jack liked it best this way too – before the day fully assembled, when you could still see the bones of the place beneath its daily bustle.
The fountain stood sentinel in the square as it had forever, water collecting in the shallow basin at its foot.
Apple blossoms carved into its base seemed to soften in the wet, as if the stone itself was mourning better days.
The village had changed little in Jack’s lifetime, which suited him perfectly.
New coat of paint on the pharmacy, a few modern-izations up at the hotel, and the occasional tourist-crap shop that rarely lasted more than a season – these were surface changes that never quite penetrated to the heart of Golden Valley.
The essence remained constant: a place where you knew the names of your neighbors’ dogs, where the lake’s moods dictated daily plans, and where generations of Flynns had coaxed Goldenridge apple harvests from stubborn soil.
The rumble of an engine drew Jack’s attention as he loaded his now-empty crates back onto the truck bed. The first bus of the day rolled into the square, windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the downpour. It groaned to a stop outside the bus stop, exhaust mingling with the mist.
Only one passenger disembarked – a woman clutching a laptop case to her chest like a shield.
Tourist. Everything about her broadcasted it: the nonsensical footwear, the expression of dismay as rain plastered dark hair to her face, the way she stood momentarily frozen, as if waiting for the weather to reconsider.
Jack shook his head, allowing himself a private smile.
American probably. They always seemed surprised that rain in Ireland actually got you wet.
The English and most Europeans were used to it of course, but the Yanks …
they always seemed to expect fairies and rainbows.
Well, the ones he’d encountered at least.
He pulled another crate from the truck – this one filled with eating apples, destined for the Glen Arms kitchen. The Ryans insisted on local produce for their hotel breakfasts and Goldenridge apples were the pride of Tipp. After the hurling team of course, he admitted with a wry smile.
The newcomer was moving now, struggling across the cobblestones with a suitcase that clearly wasn’t designed for anything rougher than airport terminals.
She stopped every few steps to check her phone, holding it at awkward angles to shield the screen from raindrops.
Her free hand wiped repeatedly at her face, a futile gesture against the persistent drizzle.
‘Where the heck is this hotel?’ he heard her mutter as a gust of wind carried her voice across the square.
Yup. And not just city, but Big City.
Jack’s shoulders tensed slightly, an instinctive reaction he couldn’t quite control.
The village had seen an increasing number of tourists lately, to say nothing of a concerning increase in property developers and estate agents with smiles as polished as their shoes, all talking about ‘authentic Irish experiences’ and ‘untapped real-estate potential.’ The last one had offered to buy half his orchard to build holiday cottages overlooking the lake.
Jack had shown him the door with more restraint than the fecker deserved.
This one looked like that corporate type too, with the laptop and everything. Even her posture seemed at odds with the village – too rigid, too purposeful, as if she could bend the world to her schedule through sheer determination.
Jack arranged the apples in the hand-wheeled cart he used for smaller deliveries with limited parking options, stacking them in neat pyramids – classic Goldens at the center, surrounded by the deep red Bloody Butchers and a few early Winter Pearmains.
The cart rested beside his truck, wheels safely locked against the cobblestones’ uneven surface.
The woman was heading in his direction now, pulling her suitcase with increasing frustration.
Each time the wheels caught between stones, she tugged with more force, her shoulders hunching against both rain and aggravation.
She’d given up on the phone, shoving it into a pocket to focus on the physical battle with luggage and elements.
Jack watched amused from the corner of his eye as he worked.
It was like watching a salmon fighting upstream, admirable in its wrongheaded persistence.
She was closer now, close enough that he could see that her cheeks were flushed with cold and effort, lips pressed into a thin line of concentration as she navigated another treacherous patch of cobblestones.
Pretty, though.
‘Excuse me,’ she called, American twang carrying loudly through the rain. ‘Can you tell me where—’ Her suitcase wheel caught in a deep groove between stones and she yanked reflexively with the impatient strength of someone at the end of their tether.
The wheel came free with unexpected speed, sending the suitcase careening sideways – directly into the side of Jack’s apple cart.
He lunged forward, one hand outstretched toward his carefully arranged display, but he was too late. The cart teetered for a heart-stopping moment, then tipped with deliberate grace.
The pyramid of fruit collapsed, spilling in all directions like billiard balls after a perfect break.
Dozens of shiny, perfect apples – each handpicked, polished and arranged with care only this morning – bounced across the cobblestones.
They rolled down the gentle slope of the square, gathering speed, some disappearing beneath parked cars while others headed straight for the gutter beneath the fountain where the rain had formed a miniature river.
Jack watched, momentarily transfixed as a particularly fine Golden rolled in a perfect line toward the fountain, circling its base like a satellite finding orbit, then disappeared down a drain with a final, unceremonious plop.
The woman stood frozen, her hand still gripping the suitcase handle, horror etched across her features. Her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of dismay, eyes wide as she watched quite literally the fruit of Jack’s labor scatter across the wet square.
‘Oh gosh! I’m so sorry …’ she gasped, green eyes wide, releasing the suitcase to reach for an apple that had stopped right by her foot. ‘I didn’t see the— I was just trying to …’
Her hair had long-escaped whatever style she’d attempted, dark strands plastered against her cheeks and neck, which made her look like a bedraggled urchin.
Rainwater dripped from her chin as she bent to retrieve the apple, her movements suddenly careful, as if handling something precious.
Jack assessed the damage with a quick glance. The cart hadn’t broken, just tipped. Most of the apples could be recovered, though they’d need washing of course. The real casualty was time – time he didn’t have to spare, with three more deliveries still to make before nine.
He blinked, droplets catching on his eyelashes. Time to salvage what he could of this situation – and his apples. And maybe give the poor woman a hand.
He bent to right the fallen cart, already calculating which deliveries would have to be delayed or topped up, to accommodate this unexpected detour in his morning routine.
She remained frozen, rainwater dripping from her chin, her ruined blouse, her expensive suede boots.
Looking for all the world like someone who had just realized they truly weren’t in Kansas anymore.