Chapter 20 #2
Molly subtly opened her notebook, inputting observations – not just about the orchard’s needs, which were hardly relevant to her marketing task, but about the men themselves.
The way Jack’s face softened when discussing the trees, the respect with which he addressed his great-uncle despite clearly being the one in charge now.
These were the human elements that would make Goldenridge’s story resonate.
‘The irrigation system needs more work before we shut it down for winter,’ Jack continued, his hands wrapped around his mug in a gesture that mirrored Molly’s own. ‘Some of those connectors are from the 1970s installation.’
‘Parts still in the shed?’ Patrick asked, his weathered fingers tapping thoughtfully against his knee.
‘Some. We’ll need to order more though.’ Jack took a long sip of his tea. ‘And the press roof has that leak over the storage area. Needs patching before the heavy rains come.’
Molly found herself unexpectedly fascinated by this glimpse into the year-round commitment an orchard required.
Her grandmother had spoken of farming as a calling rather than just a profession, and now she understood why.
The crop demanded constant attention, each season bringing its own challenges and tasks.
The conversation flowed easily between them, technical details interspersed with observations about weather patterns and reminiscences of past challenges.
She found herself drawn into their world, the rhythm of their discussion as soothing as the play of sunlight through leaves and the distant hum of bees still working the late-blooming flowers in the flower bed.
Utterly relaxed, she found herself humming softly under her breath as she wrote.
The older man froze mid-sentence, his weathered hand tightening on his mug. ‘Where’d you learn that?’ Patrick asked, voice suddenly sharp with interest.
Molly looked up, startled by his tone, her fingers stilling on the notebook. The humming had been unconscious, a habit she’d picked up from years of hearing Nan sing while working. The melody had risen unbidden; an old Irish ballad Aoife often hummed while kneading bread or hanging washing.
Too late, she realized her mistake – this wasn’t some universally known Irish folk tune, but perhaps something specific to this region, or maybe even to her grandmother’s generation?
‘Not sure, really,’ she answered, her voice deliberately casual despite the sudden racing of her pulse.
‘My grandmother used to sing it, I think.’ Patrick’s gaze didn’t waver, those keen eyes studying her face with new intensity.
If they started asking questions, maintaining her cover story that she was just an innocent tourist here to help would become trickier.
She’d been careless, letting her guard down too easily in the comfortable atmosphere, allowing muscle memory to betray her.
‘So like I was saying the other day … you really should think about running orchard-to-bottle tours in summer,’ she said brightly, changing the subject.
‘People love seeing the process; from blossom to fruit to finished cider. Educational tourism is huge right now, especially with sustainability-minded travelers.’
The abrupt pivot wasn’t subtle, but Molly pressed on, professional expertise providing a shield. She turned to Jack. ‘I’d love to see the press house next if we have the time.’ She looked up, finding his face stilled, suspicion returning to his expression.
Her stomach dropped. She’d overcompensated, the marketing talk too forced after the natural flow of their earlier conversation. Jack was too perceptive not to notice, his earlier doubts about her clearly resurfacing.
While Patrick studied her too, his lined face was unreadable. Unlike his great-nephew’s open wariness, the older man’s expression held something more complex – curiosity, certainly, but also a thoughtfulness that suggested he was trying to fit pieces together in his mind.
Damn.
Molly kept her expression composed, years of corporate presentations helping her maintain a calm facade despite the turmoil beneath.
‘Most tours stick to the straightforward stuff,’ Jack observed.
‘Cider varieties, apple picking, pretty views for their photos. Whereas you seem particularly drawn to the older elements. The heritage varieties. The local songs. The old oak.’ He emphasized the last words slightly, the implication clear.
Molly felt heat rise in her cheeks despite her efforts to remain composed. She’d spent years in boardrooms facing down skeptical executives, but something about Jack Flynn’s direct gaze always made her usual poise falter.
Perhaps because with the others, she’d been representing clients, companies, products. Here, the deception was more personal, wrapped up in her promise to her grandmother and her own unexpected emotional response to this place and its people.
‘I’m always drawn to authenticity,’ she answered, meeting his gaze directly. ‘Especially in a world full of mass-produced experiences and corporate homogeneity.’ She hesitated, then added softly, ‘My grandmother valued that too.’
It wasn’t a lie, though it skirted the deeper truth she couldn’t yet reveal – not when she was supposed to be here to help them with marketing, as opposed to furthering her own agenda in getting access to the land.
Hopefully if she played her cards right, that would come later.
And Aoife had indeed valued authenticity, had instilled in Molly a respect for traditions and connections that ran deeper than commerce or convenience.
‘Your grandmother sounds like she had good taste,’ Patrick said finally, his voice gentler than before. ‘In songs and values.’
‘She did,’ Molly agreed simply.
The conversation had shifted into uncertain territory, the easy flow of earlier replaced by fresh caution.
Jack cleared his throat. ‘Time to call it a day, I think. I’ve a lot to get through.’ Much to her dismay, Molly realized she was being dismissed.
‘What about the cider barn? I’d really like to …’
‘Another day maybe.’
As he gathered their empty mugs, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her careless humming had changed something fundamental in how both men perceived her.
As Molly stood up, she caught Patrick studying her with particular intensity. Something in his expression – a flash of doubt, disappointment, even? – sent a flutter of apprehension through her.
The question was whether he would share those doubts with Jack, and whether Molly’s remaining fragile access to Goldenridge orchard – and the ancient oak that stood as its sentinel – would survive if he did.