Chapter 21
Much to Molly’s relief, Jack had arranged to meet her back at Goldenridge the following afternoon to continue the cider-making element of her tour. She’d been filming some of the eastern orchard rows for her campaign, when the first raindrops fell – initially tentative, then a sudden deluge.
‘This way,’ Jack called out over the heavy spattering of water on the leaves. They made a mad dash through the muddy lanes, arriving at the cider barn breathless and drenched despite the short distance.
Now, as raindrops drummed against the roof, Molly stood dripping on ancient floorboards, surrounded by the rich, tangy perfume of fermenting apples and centuries of Flynn family history.
‘Sorry about your hair,’ he said, looking rather unapologetic as he struck a match.
The small flame illuminated his face from below, catching on stubble that had darkened his jaw since yesterday.
He touched the fire to a lantern wick, and warm amber light bloomed outward, pushing back the shadows of the building’s cavernous interior.
Molly winced. ‘Seems like it’s kind of a theme around here.
’ She ran her fingers through her sodden ponytail, freeing her hair from its elastic to help dry it easier.
The barn air was cool and heavy with fermentation scents that reminded her of sourdough, wine cellars and something distinctly apple-sweet.
But her damp clothing in the colder air made her shiver involuntarily.
‘Here.’ Jack shrugged out of his leather jacket – miraculously barely damp – and offered it with an awkward thrust of his arm. The gesture surprised her more than the rain had.
‘Thanks.’ She slipped it over her shoulders, immediately enveloped in a warmth that carried subtle notes of woodsmoke and male skin. The sleeves hung past her fingertips and she rolled them back, feeling oddly small within the leather cocoon. ‘So this is where the magic happens …’
Jack glanced around the barn as if seeing it through her eyes – the rows of oak barrels lining the walls, the gleaming copper of the press catching the lantern light. ‘Not magic,’ he corrected. ‘Just patience and time.’
Now that was truly ad-worthy Molly thought, swooning a little.
He moved deeper into the space, his footsteps echoing slightly in the vast room.
The rain’s rhythm intensified, creating a natural percussion overhead that somehow made the space feel smaller, more intimate.
Water slipped through a crack in one corner, dropping with precision into a strategically placed bucket.
‘I started making cider here when I was sixteen,’ he said, running a hand along a barrel’s curved side with the casual intimacy of long acquaintanceship.
‘Patrick showed me how to judge when the fermentation was complete by sound alone. Said a good cider-maker’s ears were as important as his taste buds. ’
‘How do you tell when it’s ready?’ Molly asked, genuinely curious. She followed him past rows of barrels marked with chalk notations – dates, variety names, cryptic symbols that must hold meaning to the initiated.
‘The bubbling changes pitch.’ His voice had dropped to match the hushed atmosphere of the barn. ‘Gets slower, more deliberate. If you’re paying attention, the cider tells you when it’s ready.’ A fleeting smile softened his features. ‘It’s like listening to the apples’ final song.’
The poetry of the phrase surprised her. Jack Flynn, with his gruff exterior and suspicious nature, hadn’t struck her as a man who thought in metaphors. Yet here, surrounded by the fruits of his labor, something in him always loosened.
‘Sounds like your marketing campaign just wrote itself,’ she said, smiling.
He chuckled. ‘Maybe I should get you to come with me to the bank then.’
‘The bank?’
He nodded. ‘Another meeting on Friday; the regional manager from town visits only once a month. I’ve been trying to get them to approve a loan.
It’s not looking great, to be honest.’ She knew it was killing him to admit this.
‘The previous manager knew me since we were boys,’ Jack continued, his voice low.
‘His father and mine played football together. But for the latest guy, business is business and the numbers just don’t …
’ He trailed off, jaw tightening. ‘The numbers don’t support the kind of leverage we need. ’
Molly remained quiet, sensing he needed to let it out, more than seek advice.
‘The irrigation system needs a complete overhaul,’ he told her, pacing a short line between barrels.
‘Three tractors need major repairs. The processing equipment has parts so old they need to be custom-made now.’ His hand raked through his hair, leaving it standing in damp spikes.
‘And that’s before we even talk about the roof on this place, or the new planting we need to do in the south section. ’
Molly’s professional mind immediately began calculating, assessing possibilities. ‘Could you phase the repairs somehow? Prioritize what’s absolutely critical for this season’s harvest and next year’s—’
‘We’ve been “phasing” for three years,’ he interrupted, frustration edging his voice.
‘Patching instead of fixing or postponing and making do. There’s a point where that approach costs more than doing it properly would have in the first place.
’ He exhaled sharply. ‘We’re well past that point now. And I’m all out of ideas.’
He turned away, but not before Molly caught the flash of pain in his eyes. This wasn’t just business concern; this was deeply personal anguish. Jack Flynn wasn’t merely worried about profits or production; he was terrified of failing the legacy he’d been entrusted to protect.
‘What about Patrick? Surely he has some ideas?’ she asked gently.
Jack shook his head. ‘He doesn’t know how bad it is. I’ve kept the worst of it from him.’ His voice dropped even lower. ‘He’d offer his retirement savings in a heartbeat, but I can’t – I won’t take that from him. The man’s earned his peace.’
Molly leaned against a sturdy wooden post, watching him move among his barrels with ease until he grabbed two glasses from a small shelf; sturdy, hand-blown specimens with gently curved sides.
‘Fancy a taste?’ He arranged the glasses on top of an upturned barrel that served as a makeshift table, then selected a long copper instrument that reminded Molly of an oversized turkey baster. ‘The thief,’ he explained, catching her curious glance. ‘For extracting samples without disturbing it.’
Jack approached a barrel marked with a white chalk X, inserted the narrow end of the thief through a small bunghole, and drew up a column of liquid. With practiced precision, he dispensed amber fluid into two glasses, the cider catching the lantern light as it flowed.
‘First pressing of the season,’ he said, offering her one. ‘Still young, but promising.’
Molly accepted the glass, noting how the cider’s color shifted with the changing angle of light – honey to amber to deep gold.
She raised it to her nose first, inhaling the complex bouquet.
Apple, certainly, but layered with notes of caramel, vanilla, something almost spicy that reminded her of cloves.
‘I always smell before I taste,’ she said, aware of his eyes on her. ‘Pops, my grandfather, says ninety percent of what we think is taste actually comes through the nose.’
Jack nodded. ‘Sounds like a man who knows his gargle.’
Molly took a careful sip, letting the liquid linger on her tongue. The cider was alive with flavor – crisp apple undercut by earthy tannins, a pleasant acidity balanced by subtle sweetness, and a finish that evolved even as she swallowed. Her brow furrowed slightly as she considered the complexity.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, his voice quieter now, almost intimate in the rain-muffled space.
‘It’s like … drinking autumn itself,’ Molly answered honestly. ‘But …’ she hesitated, unsure of whether her observation would be welcome.
‘But?’ His eyebrows lifted slightly, more curious than offended.
She took another thoughtful sip. ‘I wonder if it might benefit from a touch more sweetness. Not sugar,’ she added quickly, seeing his expression. ‘Maybe honey? Sweetness into the bones, rather than just on the surface.’
Jack froze mid-sip, glass halfway to his lips. His eyes fixed on her face with sudden intensity, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘What did you just say?’
Guilty heat rushed to her cheeks. ‘I just meant the honey might integrate better into—’
‘No.’ He set his glass down with deliberate care. ‘That phrase. “Sweetness into the bones”. Where did you hear that?’
Molly’s heart hammered against her ribs. She’d slipped again. Aoife often said this when describing anything that needed depth other than surface charm.
‘My grandmother again,’ she replied, striving for casual truth. ‘Used it sometimes when she baked or cooked. Said there was a difference between something sweet on the tongue and sweetness that went deeper.’
Jack’s expression shifted, giving way to something more complex – surprise, recognition, and a curious softening around his eyes.
‘My own grandmother said the exact same thing,’ he said quietly.
‘She died before I was born, but Patrick, who knew her well, told me she used to say it when adding honey to an apple tart filling.’
Molly forced a chuckle. ‘Must’ve been a saying for that generation,’ she suggested easily.
‘Maybe.’ But his eyes remained thoughtful, studying her face in the lantern light as if searching for something. The suspicion that had so characterized their early interactions had transformed into something else.
‘Those Crest bastards have been circling for years, you know,’ he said then, naming the corporation with palpable disdain. His posture changed as he spoke, shoulders squaring defensively. ‘Another offer came in this week. Less than what they offered last year, mind you.’
‘But you’re still not considering it,’ Molly said, making it a statement rather than a question. ‘Even after everything you just told me about the finances.’