Chapter 7
The Glen Arms Hotel’s mullioned windows glowed amber in the gray morning light, sprawling ivy vines framing the Georgian facade with picture-perfect charm. A solid oak entrance door stood as imposing as a cathedral’s, its carved apple tree motif seeming to mock Molly after what had just happened.
She pushed against it with her shoulder, expecting resistance, but it swung open with surprising ease, sending her stumbling slightly into a reception area that momentarily stole her breath.
Oak-beamed ceilings arched overhead, their aged wood glowing with the patina of centuries.
A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, stacked with what looked like peat, flames dancing merrily as if in deliberate contrast to the morning’s gloom.
An old grandfather clock stood at the end of the hallway and the walls bore black and white photographs documenting history – faces gazing across time with solemn dignity and a few unexpected smiles.
The effect should have been welcoming, magical even. But all Molly felt was the squelch of her socks, the chill that had since come right through her sodden clothes and settled deep in her bones, and the weight of travel exhaustion threatening to drag her to the polished wooden floor.
A woman in her fifties appeared from a doorway behind the reception desk, her dark hair pulled into a neat chignon. She wore a tailored navy dress that managed to be both professional and welcoming, and her smile was practiced but genuine.
‘Good morning,’ she said, her lilting accent softening the greeting. ‘Welcome to the Glen Arms. I’m Anna Ryan.’
Molly mustered what she hoped was a passable smile while the woman’s eyes assessed her with swift efficiency, taking in her bedraggled state with a flash of sympathy that was quickly professional again.
‘Thanks. Molly Harris. I have a reservation.’
‘Harris, yes, I have you here.’ She looked up at the grandfather clock as by reflex, apology already forming in her expression. ‘But I’m afraid check-in isn’t until two.’
Molly’s heart sank as she checked the time. Six more hours to wait before a hot shower and dry clothes? She glanced down at herself – sodden, bedraggled, looking for all the world more like something that had been fished from the lake, than a visitor on a mission.
And kicked herself for not making the reservation to start a night earlier.
‘Is there any chance of an earlier check-in?’ she asked, desperation edging her voice. ‘I’ve literally traveled across the ocean and as you can see …’ She gestured pointedly at her waterlogged state.
Anna’s expression softened with genuine regret.
‘I truly wish I could accommodate you, but we had a big wedding party over a long weekend and they only left yesterday. Housekeeping staff are working as quickly as possible, but …’ The woman seemed to make a decision then, her posture shifting slightly.
‘What we can offer is somewhere warm to wait in our lounge. The fire’s well-stoked and I’d be happy to bring you tea and some breakfast if you’re up to it?
You look like you could use something warm in any case. ’
The kindness, so unexpected, made Molly’s throat tighten unexpectedly. ‘That would be amazing, thank you.’
‘Come with me, so.’ Anna stepped around the counter, her movements fluid and graceful. ‘You can leave your luggage here and we’ll take it up when your room is ready. Meanwhile I’ll ask housekeeping to make it a priority.’
Molly followed her through an archway into a smaller room that somehow managed to be even more inviting than the reception area.
Deep brocade armchairs and a worn leather sofa surrounded a second fireplace, this one with a fire already crackling behind a brass guard.
Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with well-thumbed volumes in mismatched bindings.
Rain-speckled windows offered views of what must be the hotel’s garden, though the weather rendered it a watercolor blur of greens, and a distant gray-blue from windows on the other side that was surely the lake.
‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Anna soothed, gesturing toward an armchair nearest the fire. ‘I’ll bring tea and arrange a full Irish. Any dietary restrictions?’
‘None, thank you.’ Molly shook her head, already drawn toward the warmth like the proverbial moth.
Left alone, she sank into an armchair that seemed designed to accommodate weariness. The upholstery was worn in places, but clean and soft. The fire’s heat reached toward her, promising to chase the damp from her bones if she let it.
She slipped off her ruined boots and set them before the hearth, hoping the suede might be some way salvageable once dried.
Her socks followed, and she curled her bare toes toward the flames, a small sigh escaping as warmth began to seep back into her extremities.
The laptop case with its precious contents sat safely beside her, never far from reach.
Only then, in the quiet comfort of the empty lounge, did Molly allow herself to fully process the morning’s strange encounter.
The apple guy had seemed so genuine at first, openly flirtatious as they’d gathered the scattered fruit. And then, as quickly as the connection had formed, it had vanished. One moment they’d been engaged in easy banter, the next he’d been looking at her with suspicion bordering on hostility.
What had triggered the change?
Molly had expressed a casual interest in his work, nothing more, but it seemed like that was off boundaries, or a cultural misstep maybe? Was that somehow offensive in rural Ireland? Too invasive for casual conversation?
She reached into her pocket and withdrew the apple he’d given her, turning it over in her fingers again. It was perfectly formed, its skin a blend of red and gold that caught the firelight like a small jewel.
Goldenridge Orchard. The name had sparked recognition instantly – how could it not? Nan had mentioned it countless times, describing the fruit that Molly had mentioned to the bus driver earlier as ‘tasting like sunshine.’
The memory sent a fresh pang through her chest. This was supposed to be so different. In Aoife’s stories, this place had been a haven of warmth and welcome, of community so tight-knit you apparently couldn’t walk ten steps without someone offering tea or conversation.
The Golden Valley of her grandmother’s youth sounded almost magical – a place where the light fell differently across the lake, where music spilled from pub doorways on summer evenings, where even strangers were treated as old friends.
Instead, Molly was met with rain that soaked to the skin, cobblestones that fought her every step, and a handsome orchardist whose initial warmth had suddenly frozen into hostility without explanation. Even this hotel, nice as it was, couldn’t offer her a room on arrival.
Molly closed her eyes, exhaustion washing over her in waves. This had been a mistake. Her boss had prescribed rest after all, not a wild goose chase through a rainy Irish village where she knew no one, and apparently couldn’t avoid offending locals within minutes of arrival.
She should just get the job done quickly – fulfill her promise to her grandmother, and then head onwards for sightseeing in Dublin for the remainder of her stay.
At least in the capital, she’d have anonymity, modern conveniences and city people too busy with their own lives to judge her for asking innocent questions.
The soft clink of china roused Molly from her thoughts and she opened her eyes to find Anna setting a tray on the small table beside her chair.
‘Traditional Irish,’ she said, arranging the contents with practiced efficiency. ‘Tea, brown bread, and honey from hives kept just up the hill. The eggs and bacon are from McCarthy’s farm, not two miles from here.’
The food smelled wonderful, rich and hearty and nothing like the protein bars and tasteless airline crap that had sustained Molly for the past twenty-four hours. She murmured her thanks as Anna poured tea into a delicate china cup, the amber liquid steaming fragrantly.
‘Business or pleasure bringing you to our little corner of Tipp?’ The question was polite, but Molly caught the genuine curiosity beneath it.
‘Just a personal thing,’ she replied, having well and truly learned her lesson earlier.
Though if Anna was insulted or disappointed by the lack of specifics, she didn’t show it. ‘Well, be sure to let me know if there’s anything else I can do to make your stay more welcoming. I’ve checked again on your room and there really shouldn’t be too long of a wait.’
The sentiment was kind, but Molly couldn’t deny the irony. More welcoming? Some welcome this was; soaked to the skin, homeless till this afternoon and already on the wrong side of at least one local. She managed a smile nonetheless. ‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’
Left alone again with her breakfast, Molly forced herself to eat despite her exhaustion.
The food was undeniably excellent – eggs with yolks the color of marigolds, delicious bacon that bore no resemblance to its American counterpart, bread that tasted of something deeper than the mass-produced versions she usually grabbed from the corner deli.
As she ate, she gazed out the rain-spattered window at what she could make out of the hotel grounds.
A flagstone path wound through to a rear walled garden that must be glorious in better weather, leading to what appeared to be a small gate in a distant wall.
On the other side, she caught glimpses of Lough Corrin itself, pewter in the morning light, its surface textured by raindrops.
Her grandmother had described swimming in that lake as a girl, claimed the water was sweet and cold and cleansing. Had spoken of picnics on its shore, of starlight reflected on still water in the darkness.
Again, Molly tried to reconcile those stories with the rain-blurred reality before her, but the gap felt insurmountable. Perhaps time had gilded her grandmother’s recollections? Transformed ordinary experiences into something magical through nostalgia and distance.
Or perhaps Golden Valley had simply changed in the decades since Aoife Brennan had left its shores, becoming just another rural village struggling to maintain its identity in a rapidly changing world.
Either way, Molly couldn’t escape the feeling that she’d made a bad decision.
In her current state – exhausted, uncomfortable and smarting from her encounter with the grumpy local – she truly wasn’t sensing whatever magic her grandmother had been talking about.